“Yes, sir, that is correct. More than two years.”
“Well there, detective, Bully. Bully for you. Very humorous man, that Mr. Twain. One of my very favorites.”
“Yes sir,” responded Jim.
At that point Mr. Wilcox and two others, seeing Roosevelt walking back to the house, quickly approached them, and escorted the President away into the mansion.
That evening, Jim didn’t arrive home until almost 10 p.m. He walked in, kissed Hannah hard, and asked for the kids.
“Junior and Nellie are in the parlor and David’s asleep,” she said.
“Nellie! Junior! Come in here,” their father called out.
The two teenagers cautiously approached the kitchen, wondering what they’d done wrong.
“Wait for me here.”
“What’s going on, Jim?” asked Hannah.
Jim opened the door to David’s bedroom and tip-toed in.
“Davey. Davey!” he loudly whispered. David stirred.
“Come, get up, just for a little while,” Jim said, sliding his arms under his groggy boy to lift him up. “Your father has something wonderful he wants to tell you about.”
Another President’s Buffalo Funeral
September 15, 1901
Jim was up again and out the door before dawn. He reported to Headquarters to join the army of Detectives and patrolmen assigned to McKinley’s funeral detail. The Pan American Exposition was closed for the day out of respect for the dead President.
Hannah and the children dressed themselves in mourning black and piled into the Alderman’s automobile, Junior at the wheel, to head for the City Hall where President McKinley’s body would lie in state.
Rain was heavily pouring down.
President Roosevelt rose early and welcomed the Rev. Dr. Mitchell of the First Presbyterian Church for breakfast. T.R. was exhausted from the trials of the previous day but he dressed quickly for the funeral. His naïveté the previous day when he’d insisted upon his unguarded walk with Secretary Root down the Avenue was chastised. The President would from now on be heavily guarded. Jim Sullivan and the other detectives were newly relegated to peripheral duties as a small army of federal secret service men moved in.
Roosevelt, when the hour came, left the Wilcox home and traveled back up the street to the Milburn house to where the dead president still lay on a bier, undergoing preparation for transfer to his coffin. Teddy waited patiently as this ceremony was accomplished.
Thousands of people lined Delaware Avenue to view the cortege as it departed the Milburn mansion. The throng was silent as the coffin was carried out of the home and slid into the waiting hearse. Mrs. McKinley remained behind at the Milburn mansion along with her sister, Mrs. Barber, Dr. Rixey, and other close associates. The former First Lady, that morning after the death mask had been taken of the President, spent over an hour with his body. The removal of Mrs. McKinley from the room afterward was attended with some difficulty.
The procession was at first a bit discombobulated. The military units, Bluejackets and Marines from the USS Michigan, marched with less than practiced precision.
A battalion of white-helmeted Buffalo police on spirited horses led the way, followed by the 65th Regiment Band playing a funeral dirge. Then came the carriages of President Roosevelt and New York Governor Odell. Heads bowed and people sobbed as the glass hearse drawn by four horses made its way downtown. Two helmeted Buffalo mounted police held the bits of the hearse’s two lead horses as they walked alongside them.
A downpour deluged the throng as the hearse approached the steps of the City Hall on the Franklin Street side, its two morning-coated top-hatted drivers soaked to the skin. Thousands of drenched mourners all around watched in silence. Street cars on W. Eagle Street slowed to a halt so that drivers and passengers could witness the historic sight. The rain poured down relentlessly, soaking everyone entirely, yet no one moved away. At the foot of the steps an Edison moving picture cameraman stood in the downpour cranking his camera as the hearse pulled up, recording the event for posterity.
The sailors who had trailed the hearse along the route opened its glass hearse doors, slid the heavy coffin out and hoisted the ponderous casket atop their shoulders, then ascended the granite stairs. The President, members of the Cabinet, and other important persons followed. The coffin would lie in state under the domed ceiling for public viewing. Once the casket was set in its place low and flat, the lid was opened and the deceased President’s body checked over by the undertaker as to its suitability for presentation. President Roosevelt and the accompanying dignitaries then paid their respects, quickly departing out the Delaware Ave. side of the building for security reasons. Afterward the public was invited in. Roosevelt returned to the Wilcox mansion for a luncheon with Cabinet members, Governor Odell and others. After the meal the men spent an hour in the library in general discussion.
Jim and his fellow detectives stood guard out on the sidewalk on Delaware Avenue as an endless stream of callers tried to approach the front door to see the President. Notables were welcomed in by the dozen: Generals, Senators, Justices, men lobbying for a Cabinet post, a contingent of Civil War veterans and more. Many more callers were turned away before ever reaching the home.
Concurrently, thousands entered the City Hall via the Franklin Street entrance and were very expediently ushered past the bier, exiting on the opposite Delaware Avenue side. Those hoping to linger outside on Delaware Avenue were pushed along by the police so that a bottleneck would not be created. The driving rain helped scatter the lingerers until about two o’clock when the sun finally broke through. One hundred thousand citizens had passed the coffin by 11 p.m.
The following day Big Ben Parker returned to the reopened Pan-American Exposition as an honored guest. Reporters met him outside the gates but the modest giant solicited no acclaim. He said, “I happened to be in a position where I could aid in the capture of the man. I do not think that the American people would like me to make capital out of the unfortunate circumstances. I am no freak anyway. I do not want to be exhibited in all kinds of shows. I am glad that I was able to be of service to the country.”
He did however hold dear a newspaper clipping quoting Mr. Ireland, President McKinley’s secret service man’s account of the incident that he kept in his wallet:
“[I was watching] this man who appeared to be an Italian, who had a short cropped heavy black moustache, he was persistent and it was necessary for me to push him along so that the others could reach the President. Just as he released the President’s hand, and as the President was reaching for the hand of the assassin, there were two quick shots. Startled for a moment, I looked and saw the President draw his right hand under his coat, straighten up, and pressing his lips together giving Leon Czolgosz the most scornful and contemptuous look possible to imagine. At the same time I reached for the young man and caught his left arm. The big Negro standing in back of him and would have been next to take the presidents hand struck the assassin in the neck with one hand and with the other reached for the revolver which had been discharged through the handkerchief and the shots had set fire to the linen.”
“Immediately a dozen men fell upon the assassin and was borne on the floor. While on the floor Czolgosz again tried to discharge the revolver but before he got to the president the Negro knocked it from his hand. As it went across the floor, one of the artillerymen picked it up and put it in his pocket.”
But shamefully, forces were conspiring against the modest Parker, for many in the country could not abide a Negro being hailed and celebrated as a national hero.
...
The assassin Czolgosz had been saved from lynching by rabid crowds of Buffalonians only to be thrown to the wolves in a kangaroo court. His court-appointed attorneys were two elderly former judges who hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom in years. They petitioned the judge to limit the time spent in session to four hours per day because any more than that would create a physical hardship for them to endure.<
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This proved not to be a concern however since the entire trial from jury selection to the guilty verdict was neatly wrapped up in twenty-four hours. By the end of the day on September 24 it was all over.
Jim Sullivan found himself quite disturbed by the lack of examination in the case. “It’s as if they just want to get it all over with as soon as possible, Hannah, never mind the pursuit of justice,” he complained to her as she ironed.
“He killed the President Jim. So why should it even matter? There’s no question he done it. He’s lucky he’s even gettin’ a trial if you ask me.”
Having been stationed outside the Temple of Music, Jim had not witnessed the shooting, but Detective Geary did. Together they talked about it in detail.
“What disturbs me, Geary,” Jim said, “is that nobody seems to suspect the Italian who stood ahead of the shooter in the receiving line. I mean, all those involved have told how the Italian wouldn’t let go of McKinley’s hand and that it caused quite a stir, so much so that they had to physically move him along. This provided the perfect deflection for the shooter to carry out his heinous act. All eyes were laid upon the Italian and the disturbance he was creating, which opened a wide avenue from which the shooter could do the deed. Who was that Italian? Why is no one interested in finding him, just to make sure he wasn’t in on it, to examine whether this was in fact the work of just one man?”
Geary nodded. He hadn’t even considered that as a possibility, a fault which seemed to embarrass him right then. “Well, too late now,” he dismissed. “Anyways, shouldn’t them secret service guys ‘ve nabbed him? In the chaos after the shooting that Italian fella just disappeared into the crowd.”
Czolgosz’s attorneys never offered the obvious defense of insanity as acceded in anarchist Emma Goldman’s recollection of her own encounter with the disturbed admirer. Undoubtedly he did it, for there were so many eye witnesses. And yet despite all these eye witnesses to the assassination which left no doubt as to what Czolgosz did, suddenly the same eyewitnesses became unclear or downright forgetful about Big Ben Parker’s heroic role in the atrocity. Parker was never called to testify at the trial.
The first notable round in James Parker’s deconstruction had been fired on September 13 in the Buffalo Express, when prominent Buffalo attorney James Quackenbush stated that he stood less than six feet from the President, and that secret service men Gallagher and Ireland, along with men from the 73rd Seacoast Artillery, took Czolgosz down. He denied seeing James Parker being any part of the take down.
Bizarrely, even secret serviceman Ireland, whose published statement taken the day of the shooting Parker kept in his wallet attesting to Parker’s quick action, later testified he saw no Negro involved.
Local newspapers, most notably Fingy Conners’ Courier and the Buffalo Commercial stated that the testimony presented in trial proved that Parker had nothing to do with the capture of Czolgosz, and accused Parker of profiteering under false pretenses.
The Afro-American community was outraged that Parker was not called to testify at Czolgosz’s trial, charging that the secret service and the military were mortified that it was a Negro who took the assassin down rather than they.
A committee was formed at a meeting called by Reverend E.A. Johnson, pastor of Buffalo’s African Methodist Church, on September 21, 1901. The audience was full of incensed black citizens, according to an article published in the Buffalo News, angry over Parker’s being stripped of credit and recognition. They composed a statement that was published the following day:
“Whereas, there is a conflict of statements between the Associated Press and the Supreme Court of New York with respect or disrespect to the heroic act of James Parker in having thwarted the purpose of Leon Czolgosz in inflicting immediate death of our William McKinley. Whereas, we, the colored citizens of the City of Buffalo, N.Y. in this mass meeting assembled, that they very much regret the clash of statement in respect to the reported act of heroism on the part of James Parker, in that the Associated Press as a molder of public sentiment and as a herald of accepted facts. Reported said heroic act both in America and Europe, and that the Supreme Court, the arbiter of justice, entirely eliminated said James B. Parker from the part he is reported by the press to have played in this tragedy.”
Billy Buster & The Enchanted Hill
1902
Fingy Conners was impressed as hell to say the least. But he just couldn’t fathom removing himself all the way across the country so entirely, so isolated and so far away from all his businesses, especially considering the time and effort required to reach such a God-forsaken place.
The Buffalo newspaper publisher preferred his vacation resorts a bit closer to home and teeming with rich people and society celebrities. Conners didn’t believe he could effectively supervise his varied empire from so far afield the way that William Randolph Hearst so confidently could. Fingy in order to rule needed to be there right in people’s faces. His methods of persuasion were of a more primitive variety than Hearst’s. And Mary and the girls, they would certainly hear none of it, spending any length of time way out here in the dust and heat, that’s for sure, with all their fancy dresses, important parties and social obligations.
On the other hand, it did seem a perfect place for a boy. Little Billy would love it. Fingy imagined his son here with him as he slowly rocked on the veranda, the hawks circling overhead on the ascending thermals, the blue Pacific spreading its infinite azure volume far below, the silence of the place overwhelmingly peaceful. The Ranch was beginning to appeal to Fingy, all forty-eight thousand acres of it.
Its setting was undeniably spectacular. He could understand why Hearst had such a special place in his heart for it, this being his boyhood refuge and all.
The eighteen-room mansion on whose veranda Conners sat was a stunning edifice, a Victorian masterpiece, plunked down in the parched golden California hills right in the middle of nowhere. Its elegant period parlor was dominated by a huge formal oil portrait of Hearst’s mother Phoebe.
The journey to get all the way up here from the harbor was taxing to say the least, even though the stunning sea of orange California poppies numbering in the millions through which the odyssey was made eased the eye, splotched here and there as it was with interruptions of deep blue-purple lupine. But as sore as he might have been feeling just about then, if he was serious about winning over W.R. with his master plan, Fingy had to endure the arduous trek no matter how long or how uncomfortable, and act like he enjoyed doing it.
Those last few miles though, climbing up along a hot, bumpy, spine-jarring narrow dusty trail in an imported horseless carriage had just about taken it all out of him. A time or two the car had inched too terrifyingly close to the edge for comfort. But now, though covered in dust, he was fine. Settled.
The automobile was a Marlborough steam engine chain drive, valued by Hearst at Rancho Piedra Blanca for its ability to climb a 25 percent grade. They did have to get out a few times to clear errant boulders from their path. The auto’s canvas covering over his head kept that part of Fingy shaded, but his dark suit soaked up the broiling California sun, causing him to sweat considerably. His ruby face was now intensely crimson.
Reaching their destination it came as no great surprise when the laboring automobile slowed to a halt and Hearst’s so-called “camp” turned out to be a spectacular eighteen-room California Colonial mansion. With six servants inside and God-knows how many scattered about the vast property, the house was surrounded by thousands of undulating acres of free-range cattle and exotic beasts from far-away continents.
Now as he rocked on the cool porch, sipping a lemonade, fog was beginning to roll in, blessedly. Its wispy fingers reached into the arroyos and canyons, tempering the mid-day’s harsh rays, producing a soft light that muted the brazen yellows and silvery greens into translucent pastels.
The host stepped out of the front door and sized up his guest.
“Don’t get too comfortable there, Conners,”
William Randolph Hearst commanded as authoritatively as his thin voice was able, gesturing as one of the Mexicans approached with three donkeys, fully saddled. Fingy rose unhappily from his shady refuge and just stood there a moment trying to fix his bearings.
Hell, no, he thought to himself.
“Ain’t never rode no horse, W.R.,” he balked.
“Well, these are donkeys Conners, better suited to the task. It’s either this or walk. Believe me, you don’t want to walk. Pancho will help you up. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.”
The ranch hand Pancho indicated that Fingy should put his foot in the stirrup, but Conners couldn’t raise his leg up that high.
“Get him a stool, Pancho,” said Hearst. “No. Wait. Rosamaria!” he called. “Bring the stool from the cocina!”
Out ran the cook with a small stool she used to reach the top shelves of the kitchen cupboards.
Once again, Fingy raised his leg and this time managed to hook his foot into the stirrup.
“Now, grab the saddle horn and pull yourself up,” instructed Hearst.
Being minus a thumb, Fingy couldn’t clutch like other people, so Pancho guided him, or rather, pushed him upwards. No one was more surprised than Conners when his ample butt landed in its intended place. He wanted to smile at his accomplishment, but the donkey was dancing sideways and he was terrified he was going to topple off.
“We’ll take it slow, Conners. The donkeys know the way. Ven, Pancho.”
Pancho hopped on his donkey and trailed a discreet distance behind.
Allowing Fingy’s donkey to ride ahead as a setup for one of his favorite jokes, Hearst said, “My, my, Fingy, you certainly do have quite an attractive ass there! Would you let me ride it sometime?”
Conners couldn’t help but laugh despite his physical agony.
They rode off on a slow amble while W.R. told stories about his father, his boyhood here at Rancho Piedra Blanca, his pet alligator George he had kept in his room at Harvard, and the many exotic animals he had collected and transported to the ranch as a diversion for himself, and hopefully, his future family with his new bride Millicent.
Fingy Conners & The New Century Page 26