Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins

by Richard Sullivan

  The parade, with its many fantastic and funny floats and other devices, laughter-provoking burlesques, antics and general tomfoolery, was over by 11 o’clock. Well past midnight, folk were still waiting patiently in Main Street to get a chance to squeeze somewhere on a street car. It was not for lack of car service. Cars were following one another in Main Street in a continuous line, but the outpour of people surpassed anything ever known in the city.

  It is well that the reviewing stand in Lafayette Square had been so solidly constructed. It was sold away beyond its seating capacity, and after it had already been jammed beyond standing room, people were still clamoring for admission.

  Despite the hundreds of thousands of people in the gathering, there had not been a single accident, crime or disturbance of any consequence. A few women were overcome and assisted away. Some mothers who brought their children had a difficult time and squalling babies could be heard on every hand. Not only was Main Street packed to suffocation, but the east side streets through which the parade also passed were just as crowded. The streetcar service throughout most of the town stopped for quite a time.

  Wednesday September 4, 1907

  Old Home Week

  The Visitors

  ◆◆◆

  Endlessly it seemed, regardless of how many visitors had already arrived, Old Home Weekers continued to pour into the city like water, with comparatively fewer of the earlier arrivals leaving. The newspaper headline shouted “The Streets Are Black With Folk.”

  The Trunk and Parcel Rooms at the New York Central Exchange Street Station told the tale of the overwhelmed hosts. Mountains of trunks towered precariously in the baggage room. They overflowed that room, and still other mountains rose on the platform outside. Dozens of big heavily loaded trucks thundered behind perspiring men in shirtsleeves who dragged them from frequently arriving trains to pile up yet newer towers along the platform.

  On the street side of the baggage room were wagons into which the trunks were being loaded for delivery. But the spaces they vacated were swiftly refilled, and the delivery service seemed to make little impression in the maze of traveling boxes.

  In the parcel room of the general waiting room of the station, tiers on tiers of suitcases, grips and other packages rose to a height of ten feet. Every recepticle was filled, the floors of all the aisles covered, a sort of loft was choked, and there was scarce room for the overworked old checker and his assistants to move about. The parcel room was so overcrowded that the Central officials found it necessary to open an annex storage room on the second floor, which was also filled before night.

  These conditions in the baggage and parcel rooms, with the continued inpour of passengers told the story of the day’s accommodations to the Old Home Week crowd.

  “This is worse than the Pan-American Exposition,” complained the baggageman.

  “It’s got Exposition days skinned to death,” said the parcel-checkers.

  “It’s a fright,” said the ushers, gate men and other railroad men around the station.

  Thursday September 5, 1907

  Old Home Week

  McKinley Day

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  “Does the rain always have to follow the dedication of Buffalo’s monuments?”

  This was the question many besides Alderman John P. Sullivan were asking. He had memories of other storms in mind. At Old Home Week headquarters the Alderman recalled to a news reporter the scene of the cornerstone laying of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in Lafayette Square.

  “It was 25 years ago on July 4, 1882 that the cornerstone was laid,” said the alderman from the First Ward, “and as Christopher O. Fox, father of General Fox spoke, Father Cronin held an umbrella over him. It poured then just like it did this McKinley Day, and I thought to myself, does the rain always come when Buffalo dedicates a monument?”

  McKinley Day dawned bright and sunny. Rain had drizzled on and off beginning at midnight but let up in the morning to allow the sun through. The populace had been disappointed learning that former President Grover Cleveland had declined an invitation to attend the monument ceremony due to illness, but the police department was mightily relieved. Chief Regan could only imagine the kind of security nightmare Cleveland’s attendance might have presented.

  Detective Sullivan had been assigned to protective detail for Vice President Franklin. Franklin and New York Governor Hughes were still scheduled to take part in the unveiling ceremony. 100,000 people filled the Square, the hub of Buffalo from which its primary streets radiate like spokes on a wheel. Thousands more lined the parade route leading up to it.

  Jim was worried. His experience with criminals taught him that all too many high profile crimes were committed as much for attention-seeking as anything else. The prospect of having Vice President Franklin present at the dedication ceremony for a President who had been assassinated right here in Buffalo made him shudder. The ironic opportunity afforded some attention-grabbing anarchist to shoot Frankin or Governor Hughes at this event did not escape the detective’s assessment regarding the event.

  Jim had been standing guard outside the Temple of Music when President McKinley was shot at the Pan American Exposition, and now here he was again stationed mere yards away from where the awaited Vice President would stand. He usually didn’t smoke but his nerves had been on edge from the overload of stress of the past few days. He pulled out a pack of Helmar Turkish Cigarettes, “10 cents for 10”, and lit up, never taking his eyes off the crowd.

  “Hey, Sully,” came the familiar voice. Mike Regan moved with some difficulty through the tightly-packed thousands. He came in close to whisper, “Franklin’s not going to be here after all. But we still have to watch out for Governor Hughes.”

  Jim responded, “Are you joking? They couldn’t have notified us sooner? How much did that just cost the city?” Nevertheless, he was relieved.

  Regan just shrugged noncommittally and moved on to spread the word. The welcome news came as Jim was still trying to get the picture out of his head of the Hun laborer who had been caught in an explosion the night before at the Buffalo Union Furnace, located across the street from where he was curled up sleeping with his Hannah. He was summoned there by a frantic furnace worker living down the street who stood on the Sullivan’s stoop shouting for the sleeping policeman’s help. Jim demanded that his son Jim Jr., who had grabbed his Kodak and was determined to follow him, remain at the house.

  The scene Jim encountered was appalling. As the Hungarian worker Edward Frangena was passing in front of one of the great furnaces, an explosion took place within. A quantity of red hot coke and limestone was thrown out with terrific force. One great piece of brimstone grazed Frangena’s head, knocking him senseless to the floor. The rest of the hot metal missed him.

  The room was too hot for anyone to enter. Frangena, stunned, roused by the shouts of onlookers, roasting from the heat, was trying to come to his senses, and inadvertently rolled right into the hot metal that had narrowly missed him. In a flash his clothes were ablaze. He shrieked in agony until a hose was turned on him. An ambulance was summoned and Detective Sullivan accompanied Frangena to The General Hospital, where he died at 1 o’clock that morning.

  Though his flesh was parboiled and blistered from his head to the soles of his feet, he breathed for nearly four hours after his arrival at the hospital. His wife was summoned from their home on Center Street in West Seneca. She made it to the hospital with the young ones in time to say goodbye. Edward Frangena was the fourth man in less than 24 hours who had been mortally injured at Buffalo Union Furnace. It made Jim Sullivan wonder how he managed to work there for two years and emerge comparatively unscathed having acquired only spatter scars.

  The rain was falling intermittently over Niagara Square. Jim was tired, but had to remain alert no matter what. Junior had been keen on attending the ceremony and had arranged to accompany his father for the advantage of close access to the dignitaries. He had become quite interested in photography lately
. Junior had rented the best Kodak available and had been reading Photo Era and Camera Work magazines. He had planned and practiced for days, including how he would go about recording this event whether there be sun or rain. He felt prepared.

  The sidewalks along the line of march leading to Niagara Square were lined densely with people. Doorways, windows, trees, windows, any elevation that would give a view over the heads of the crowd had its spectators. The military parade was scheduled to move from North Street along Delaware Avenue past the mansion of committee president and Buffalo Evening News proprietor E. H. Butler at one o’clock. It started on the dot. The first to get in motion were the veterans of the Civil and Spanish wars.

  The Civil War veterans of the different army posts of Buffalo were out in large force. Old and feeble, they moved down the street slowly. The colors of many a battlefield were carried in a cluster and hats were lifted by veterans lined along the street. The carriages for Governor Hughes, his escort and staff were drawn up on the sidewalk in front of the palatial Butler home. This left the roadway clear. The Governor reviewed the passing parade standing in his carriage.

  After the parade of United States troops, New York State troops, and the colorful Canadian regiments from Hamilton and London, the soldiers halted at the foot of Delaware Avenue where it intersected Niagara Square. Opening up in into double columns, the Governor’s carriage passed through these lines to the speakers’ stand. Amid heavy thunder and pelting rain the Governor refused an umbrella as he climbed the stairs of the reviewing stand. “I feel like a drowned rat,” Hughes confided to the staff of gaily bedecked colonels who accompanied him, equally drenched. With the Governor in place the troops were then dismissed to allow the visitors and citizens to get close to the speakers’ platform to hear the dignitaries’ addresses.

  Lacking just one day, it was the sixth anniversary of the assassin’s responding with a bullet the hand extended him in kindly greeting by the President of the United States at the public reception at the Pan-American Exposition, which eight days later robbed the nation of one of its most beloved leaders.

  Jim Sullivan was horrified by the expanse of identical black umbrellas that blossomed open with each fitful rainfall. They spread over the entire breadth of Niagara Square, providing ideal cover and anonymity for any would-be assassin. He watched his brother, Alderman John P., hobnobbing with the other dignitaries on the dais, when suddenly their eyes met. JP winked at him, then leaned into Governor Hughes, said a few words, then pointed to his brother in the crowd. Hughes caught Jim’s eye and nodded a hello. Jim smiled and nodded back. Hughes did not appear to be at all happy. He remained seated as others stood, socialized and milled around. Detective Sullivan performed a quick scan of those who might have noticed his exchange with the Governor for anything amiss.

  The ceremony’s 3 o’clock starting time arrived. While the thousands stood and waited for Governor Hughes to speak, the rain continued on and off. No one left. Jammed close about the flag-draped obelisk, the crowd, huddled under a solid mass of black umbrellas, waited.

  Myriad spectators gazed long and thoughtfully at the monument, drooping from its peak one of the largest American flags anyone had ever laid eyes on. It reached from peak to the top of the base a distance of about 75 feet. It was hung on the west side of the shaft. Its lower end fluttered in the brisk west wind a little above a large wreath of laurel and red, yellow, and white asters which rested against the base of the monument.

  The flag had been made in haste, to take the place of the famous Pan American Exposition flag which had been damaged by previous winds. It was evidently of similar frail construction, for shortly before the ceremonies had begun a brisk gust came and blew it against a corner of the marble where it began to tear at the bottom. Other gusts then caught it and blew it taut against the southwest corner of the obelisk and soon ripped it clear to the top. It flapped and fluttered in two sections for some minutes, then the breezes caught the two separated sections and wound them around one another until they were almost completely interwoven, like a single furled banner.

  It was then that like-minded individuals in that vast throng harked back to the dark days of secession and the Civil War, and wondered if this mishap to the flag was a providential reminder of the renting of the nation into a North and a South, and of the long and bloody strife that at last reunited the two sections.

  “I wonder what that means,” mused an old veteran close to the speaker’s stand after the flag had ripped in two. “I don’t like the look of such things.”

  But the old man’s apprehensions were apparently not shared by the many, for when the band played Yankee Doodle, several of the grizzled old men of the G.A.R. danced to the lively tune, one of them waving his cane and beating time to the music of the band.

  The release of 2000 homing pigeons a few minutes before the flag mishap was a beautiful sight. While the graceful emblems of peace were hovering over the monument to get their bearings, the band on the grandstand struck up Home Sweet Home, and there were many moist eyes among the visitors who had returned to their former home after a long absence.

  Rain in an increasing torrent continued to pour down and the scene that a moment before had been resplendent with the life and color lent it by the gorgeous costumes and millinery of the women changed to one of gloom. From the grandstand not much could be discerned other than a sea of umbrellas resembling a vast field of black mushrooms. Quickly the battle-scarred banners of the veterans who were stationed as a guard of honor near the stand were furled, but the old men, few of whom had umbrellas, stood at attention in the downpour at their posts. Thunder rumbled across the ominous sky.

  The moment of the unveiling for which the great multitude had awaited arrived. Governor Hughes was escorted to the guardrail amid a great hush. It was all over in a moment. Hughes simply pulled the white cord, loosening the flag that hung from the top of the obelisk. Old Glory furled down to the base amid cheers and the band’s playing The Star Spangled Banner. At the same instant, aerial bombs shot skyward, the bursting of shells mingling with the natural artillery rumbling through the dark heavens.

  Up to this time it had merely poured; but suddenly a solid deluge plunged downward from ominous clouds. Hughes stole his chance to exit without having to struggle through his prepared speech. Most spectators were too busy covering up or running for shelter to question the Governor’s own dash to leave. Thousands of spectators drifted away even as notable speakers awaited their turn. Few except those closest to the grandstand would have been able to hear them anyway.

  Jim Jr. had tried to operate his Kodak with one hand, his other shielding his expensive rental from the deluge with his brolley. These photographs, because it was a gloomy day and he could not steady himself properly, came out dark and blurred. Jim Sullivan Jr. was greatly disheartened. At that moment he lost faith in his ability to become a photographer of any real accomplishment.

  Friday Evening, September 6 , 1907

  Old Home Week

  The Fire Apparatus Race

  ◆◆◆

  The concerned fire commissioners had been won over by Police Chief Regan and Fire Chief McConnell. Even if Detective Jim Sullivan expressed his own personal doubts to his friend and boss regarding the safety of such an entertainment, the Chief was the chief, and if he’d declared it so, then it was so.

  The much talked-of night run of the fire carts down Main Street would come off at 8:30 o’clock on Friday evening as scheduled. Chief McConnell, Assistant Chief Murphy, and all the apparatus that would normally respond to a first alarm fire were to gallop full tilt down Main Street from Tupper all the way to The Terrace. The fire commissioners had feared it might be too dangerous to turn the fire department hog-loose on Main Street, what with the enormous Old Home Week crowds surging everywhere.

  Alderman Sullivan had pushed for city ordinances requiring the installation of oil pans on the undercarriages of automobiles because the leaking and spillage was taking its toll on the city’s
horse population, being the cause of scores of broken leg mishaps from the beasts slipping. He had lost two horses already at the Sullivan Ice Company. Rain and oil don’t mix; the alderman foresaw tragedy in this evening’s event. Chiefs Regan and McConnell promised, however, to take all precautions.

  An hour before the run was made there had been a heavy shower and all were caught in it. It was a rare umbrella that wasn’t made to shelter a dozen persons and there was a stampede for covered walkways. With but a few seconds warning, the celestial water wagon had dumped its load. The strolling throng of more or less romantic admirers of the beauties of the Main Street illuminators and decorators art was converted into a most prosaic mob of hustlers for cover. Feminine screams were heard on every hand, while feminine hands flew to their skirts or tried to spread out like umbrellas over feminine hats of gorgeous creation. Likewise, a few masculine growls and curses accompanied the screams as men snatched their straw hats from their heads and galloped to places of shelter. When the restaurants, drug stores, cigar emporiums and other places of business that were open had been filled to capacity and the lobbies of hotels, the court in Ellicott Square, the space under the grand reviewing stand at Lafayette Square and all doorways and awning-covered spaces were occupied, there was still an army of men, women and children lined up elbow-to-elbow flat against the walls of the buildings on both sides, forced to content themselves with the part-shelter, real or imaginary, afforded by that position. Still many got soaking wet, and adopting the philosophy that they couldn’t possibly get any wetter, they waited for the race to begin.