The Anarchist (16 page)

One of the other men said, “Someone is having a power cable brought in so that soon we will have electric lighting.”

Rixey went to the table against the wall, where the surgical instruments were laid out. He picked up a metal tray and returned to the operating table. He held the tray so that it reflected sunlight from the window on the long incision in the president’s abdomen. “Please, Dr. Mann, continue.”

Dr. Mann looked insulted that he would have to work under such circumstances, but he leaned over the president once again.

CZOLGOSZ was first taken to an office on the second floor of the Buffalo police headquarters, guarded by two detectives in street clothes. His face was bloody, his mouth swollen, and he could barely see out of his right eye. For minutes he would pass out in his chair.

“You think he’s going to die on us, Solomon?” he heard one of the men say.

“I’m no doctor.”

“Wouldn’t look good with him sittin’ here with just the two of us.”

“Suppose not, Geary.”

“My God, the president.” Geary’s voice trembled. “He fell into my arms and I eased him into the chair. I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t believe he got through that line, past all that security, with a gun wrapped like that.”

Czolgosz opened his good eye and looked at his guards. They both wore suits and had slicked-back hair. One had a full mustache. They stared back at him and neither seemed to know what to say or do. They seemed more confused than angry. “What’s that noise out in the street?” he asked, and they both seemed surprised that he could even speak.

“That’s the mob come to lynch you,” Geary said. There was a pitcher of water on the desk. He poured a glass and gave it to Czolgosz.

It was painful to swallow but he drained the glass. “Why are we here?”

The other, Solomon, stroked his mustache for a moment. “Waiting for Superintendent Chief Bull, who’s coming with someone from the district attorney’s office.”

Geary took the empty glass. “He looks a bit better now.”

Czolgosz turned toward the window.

“Go ahead,” Solomon said.

Czolgosz had difficulty getting out of the chair. He went to the window and leaned his forearms on the sill. The street was crammed with hundreds of men. Dozens of policemen, armed with rifles, stood on the front steps beneath the window, keeping the mob from entering the station. There was a great deal of pushing and shoving. Fists were raised, and there was chanting:
Czol-gosz, Czol-gosz, Czol-gosz!
His face hurt, his lips felt as though they might burst, his ribs ached, and every breath caused searing pain in his sides. But somehow it pleased him to look down upon this mob. He had done this—he had
caused them to come together. Hatred and anger were necessary to change.

He stepped back from the window and asked, “Is the president dead?”

Solomon and Geary said nothing.

Then he understood that it didn’t matter.

What mattered was he had made the attempt.

A few minutes before seven, Rixey took a carriage from the exposition hospital. He was accompanied by Richard Buchanan, the former U.S. ambassador to Argentina, who was the director of the Pan-American Exposition. Buchanan had already begun to make arrangements at the Milburn house, where the president would be taken later that evening. Power cables were being run into the house so that electric fans could be used to cool every room. He had gathered the house staff together, informed them of the situation, and told them that Mrs. McKinley should not be disturbed from her afternoon nap. Outside the house, a somber crowd had gathered on Delaware Avenue, so the police had cordoned off the entire block.

Clara Tharin, Mrs. McKinley’s maid, met the two men at the front door.

“She doesn’t know yet?” Rixey asked.

“She slept until six thirty,” Clara said. “Her nieces have been with her since then.”

Rixey climbed the stairs to the second floor and Buchanan followed. “This could kill her,” Buchanan whispered.

“It’s possible,” Rixey said. “I want to speak to her alone.”

“Of course.”

Rixey knocked on the first lady’s bedroom door. One of the nieces let him in and he entered the room, avoiding her stare.
Mrs. McKinley sat, as she often did, in a rocking chair, knitting. Since her husband had become president she had made more than five thousand pairs of slippers, most of which were given away to charities.

“Where is the Major?” she asked. “Why doesn’t he come?”

“I have bad news for you, Mrs. McKinley.”

As she struggled to her feet she dropped her knitting on the floor. “What is it?” For all her frailty, she could be very demanding; it might be the thing that kept her alive. “Has he been hurt?”

“Yes, he’s been hurt.” Rixey took a step closer. “He’s been shot.”

She took in a long breath, held it, and then exhaled. “I must go to him.”

“No, please,” Rixey said, taking her arm and helping her back into her chair. “We’re bringing him here. Everything now depends on you—maybe his life. We look to you to help us.”

FRIDAY evening Vice President Theodore Roosevelt gave a speech to an outdoorsman’s club on Isle La Motte in Lake Champlain. When notified of the assassination attempt, he rode a carriage some thirty miles over country roads in a hard rain to board a private train that would take him to Buffalo. By Saturday afternoon most members of McKinley’s cabinet had gathered in Buffalo. A telegraph office had been set up in the Milburns’ stable, extra phone lines were run into the house, and a group of stenographers were boarded next door. At one thirty word came that the vice president’s train had arrived, and by midafternoon the government’s highest officials waited in the Milburns’ living room to receive him.

“Even in this there’s a drama about the man,” Cortelyou said to Rixey as they stared out the windows toward Delaware Avenue.
Despite his suit and fresh hard collar, Cortelyou looked as though he had not slept at all. “You understand what this means?” he said. “This possibility has weighed on my mind often since the last election. The president and some of his advisers—Senator Hanna, in particular—they thought it was the perfect solution to Roosevelt. Often they would talk about what to
do
with Teddy. How can we contain him? And, of course, the logical answer is to make him vice president and thereby render him useless.”

“And place him within a heartbeat of the presidency.”

“Exactly. When he arrives don’t be surprised if he’s on a white stallion, wearing the uniform he wore when he stormed San Juan Hill. Every time I see the man I think I hear bugles.”

“George, the president rested comfortably through the night. Better than you did, apparently.”

Cortelyou was about to respond when everyone in the room became quiet as a carriage drew up at the curb. Roosevelt climbed down immediately and walked briskly toward the house. He was wearing a silk hat and frock coat.

“Borrowed,” Cortelyou said, and then he went into the hall, where one of the maids was opening the front door.

Rixey remained at the window and watched the president’s staff gather around Roosevelt. Though it was a somber occasion, something about the vice president seemed to invigorate the group of men—they were animated by a strange blend of curiosity, uncertainty, and muted fear. He worked his way through the living room, shaking hands with each one of them. Behind his glinting pince-nez, his eyes were quick, and his voice, though subdued, was clipped and blunt. He seemed to speak with his teeth, biting off phrases. He was forty-two, and surrounded by men with gray whiskers.

He reached Rixey last and his handshake was surprisingly soft. “Doctor, how is the president?”

“His pulse and blood pressure are good,” Rixey said. “We’re reassured, though it’s still too early to tell.”

Roosevelt nodded. “What about Mrs. McKinley?”

The vice president spoke with such sincerity that it had the effect of disarming Rixey. He cleared his throat. “She’s doing remarkably well, sir. She’s bearing up.”

“I know how they both rely on you, Doctor,” Roosevelt said. “I should pay her a brief visit first, if you think this is a good time.”

“I’m sure she would appreciate it.”

Roosevelt began to turn away, but then said, “The people I saw during my train ride across New York—I’ve never seen such despair in the faces of Americans. Not even the wounded in Cuba. They truly love their president. This is a terrible thing.”

Rixey followed Roosevelt up the stairs. People tended to underestimate the vice president. For all his energy and brashness, he had the ability to find the truth of the moment, identify its center, and articulate it cleanly, with precision. Rixey had read several of his books, and was particularly impressed by his knowledge of natural history. It was said that he read at least three books a day. Such an intellect in a man who was so physically vigorous seemed a rare thing.

One of the younger nurses stood in the hallway outside Mrs. McKinley’s bedroom. The girl’s face flushed when she realized that the vice president was approaching her. He stopped before her and inhaled deeply, which expanded his chest and squared his shoulders. At first she lowered her head, almost out of fear, but then, after a moment, she raised her eyes. Roosevelt stared at her, and she was somehow transformed. She herself stood up straighter.

Rixey knocked gently on the raised-panel door, and then turned the knob.

Suddenly, Roosevelt’s hand caught his forearm. Unlike the handshake he had offered downstairs, his grip now was firm. “Doctor, would you object to my having a moment alone with Mrs. McKinley?”

Rixey let go of the knob, though the vice president still held his sleeve. “No, of course not, Mr. Vice President.”

“Thank you.” Roosevelt let go of his arm and pushed the door open.

As he stepped inside, the nurse stared back at Rixey. She seemed embarrassed by what she had just witnessed and gazed at the floor.

Rixey walked to the end of the hall and looked out the front window. The press had set up a tent in the street and dozens of reporters stood around in small groups, smoking cigars and cigarettes; the front lawn was guarded by police and military personnel with rifles.

After a few minutes Roosevelt emerged from the first lady’s room. Rixey led him down to the other end of the hall to the president’s bedroom. One of the male nurses was sitting with McKinley, who lay on his back, asleep. The vice president stood silently for several minutes staring at McKinley, and then he led Rixey to the far end of the room.

“Has he been awake much?” Roosevelt whispered.

“Yes,” Rixey said. “And very alert, and in remarkably good spirits. Earlier today, when Dr. Mann was here—he performed the operation to close the wound—the president asked to see the newspapers. We hesitated, thinking it was too soon for him to be reading about all this. But then he made it clear that he was more interested in seeing the editorial reaction to his speech.”

The vice president bared his teeth and nodded his head. He turned and stared at McKinley a moment, and then they left the room. George Cortelyou was waiting in the hall.

“Gentlemen,” Roosevelt said, “is there somewhere we can talk—here, upstairs?”