The Anarchist (14 page)

The navy was central to all of this. The secretary of the navy, John Long, was a cordial, frail New Englander who wore spats and had suffered at least one nervous breakdown. Like McKinley, he was a proponent of restraint, whereas the assistant secretary of the navy, Theodore Roosevelt, saw the current impasse with Spain as an opportunity for the United States to finally exert itself as a significant force on the world stage. While Long was in retreat at his farm in Maine, Roosevelt took the opportunity to promote expansion and development of the navy, arguing strenuously for an increase in the number of battleships and torpedo boats being built. War, Roosevelt felt, was not only inevitable but desirable, and the result could be American fleets controlling both the Atlantic and Pacific theaters, as well as the Central American isthmus, where an all important canal would finally be built.

The night of February 15, 1898, the American battleship
Maine
exploded and sank while at anchor in Havana harbor, killing more than 250 of her crewmen. Much of the U.S. population believed that Spain was responsible, and the press urged an immediate declaration of war. Yet there was no proof that the Spanish government was responsible for the explosion. While Congress reeled out of control—many of McKinley’s staunchest Republican supporters joined the ranks of the warmongers—the president displayed remarkable discipline and called for an inquiry into the
Maine
disaster. The investigation took weeks and the results were not conclusive; but it didn’t matter: Americans wanted to go to war. McKinley’s
authority had never been so challenged, and the Republican Party was dangerously close to splitting apart. There was much negotiation, with Spanish diplomats, with other European governments, and with the Vatican, which attempted to play the role of mediator. McKinley was determined to explore every avenue in the pursuit of peace. His critics, as always, believed that he was taking his orders from Senator Mark Hanna and the power brokers on Wall Street, who were concerned only about the economic effects of war. Eventually, when McKinley did submit a declaration of war to Congress, it was specifically in response not to the
Maine
but to Spain’s failure to substantially alter its treatment of Cuban nationals. This fine distinction was lost on many patriotic Americans. For the president, it was essential that the United States go to war for legitimate reasons; to do otherwise would set a poor precedent.

There was a light knock on the door to the hallway, and Rixey went to the door. George Cortelyou stood in the hall. “Is he ready, Doctor?” he asked.

Rixey nodded in the direction of the bedroom. “They’ll be out presently.”

Cortelyou came into the sitting room and shut the door behind him. Rixey took his arm and they went to the window. “Look down through those trees, George,” he said. “What do you see?”

“Carriages. Horses. Men. Police, security, some livery.”

“Indeed,” Rixey said. “We are surrounded. This house is an ivy-covered fortress. But it’s not enough. You heard those men we met in the sunroom.”

“Norris is the best of the Pinkertons. That’s why he’s here.”

“Fine, but you heard his informer—Hyde. There are anarchists out there, waiting for the right opportunity. And you saw what happened yesterday, George. With all the military and police
swarming around, countless people were still able to simply walk right up to the president—and he smiles as he shakes their hand.”

“Doctor, no one questions your loyalty to Mr. McKinley. We all know his job would be all the more difficult if he didn’t have you at his side—you help relieve his constant concern over his wife’s health.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Rixey said.

“The president seldom has an opportunity to mingle with the people. He’s an isolated man. You know how he hates to be alone. Do you remember the occasion when Mrs. McKinley was away for a few days, and the night the president couldn’t sleep? He came down to the drawing room in his nightgown—like a child! He stretched out on the sofa and encouraged us to continue our conversation—and this allowed him to fall fast asleep.”

“I’m not talking about his insomnia,” Rixey said.

“You can’t shut him up in a room forever. He must be seen by our citizens—and, equally important,
he
must see them. It’s good for his health.” Rixey began to speak, but Cortelyou raised a hand. “What does he have planned today? A visit to Niagara Falls, a luncheon, and then a brief public appearance at the exposition.”

“Please don’t mention the Temple of Music to me,” Rixey said. “I know you canceled that part of his itinerary twice.”

“That’s right, I did. I thought it unnecessary. And
twice
he’s put it back on the schedule.”

“George, it’s a ten-minute engagement. Ten minutes.”

“And that was
my
point,” Cortelyou said. “Why bother for ten minutes? How many people will he greet, how many hands will he shake? But the president said there’ll be thousands there, and even those who don’t lay eyes on him will know he at least made the effort. To him, that’s the point: he is their president.” Cortelyou looked defeated. “I’m as concerned for his safety as you are.”

“I know, George.”

There were footsteps and voices out in the hall. The day was beginning.

CZOLGOSZ didn’t sleep well the night after the president’s speech. He lay in bed above Nowak’s saloon, and in the distance could hear the fireworks from the exposition. Though he’d had a substantial dinner of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and peas, followed by rhubarb pie topped with whipped cream, he was hungry.

At one point he sat up and lit the gas lamp; it was two o’clock. For a year he’d kept in his pocket the newspaper article about Gaetano Bresci, who had edited an anarchist magazine in Pat-erson, New Jersey. When Bresci demanded the money he had invested in the magazine returned, his colleagues shunned him; but then, after he used the money to sail to Italy and shoot King Humbert, they all wrote articles and columns praising him. He had done his duty. They didn’t understand. They weren’t true workers. Unlike Czolgosz, they hadn’t spent long days laboring in a glassworks plant as a teenager. They hadn’t put in years at a wire factory. They didn’t understand that there was no such thing as anarchist philosophy. All that mattered was the act. Bresci understood this. Emma Goldman understood this. Czolgosz had seen it in her eyes when they had first met in Cleveland—she understood that the true anarchist was one who acts. Without question. Without remorse. Without fear. She understood it was a matter of duty, an act of love.

The president’s schedule had been reported in all the newspapers. Today, his last day in Buffalo, he would visit Niagara Falls, where he would attend a luncheon at the International Hotel. Midafternoon he would return to the exposition for a public reception at four in the Temple of Music. The reception would be brief—ten minutes—and only those who got in line early would have the opportunity to shake the president’s hand.

Czolgosz slept for a few hours but, as usual, he was awake at dawn. He put on the corduroy suit he’d bought in Chicago, and
today he remembered to bring his fedora and handkerchief—it promised to be another hot, sunny day. His revolver was wrapped in a shirt in the bottom of his valise; he took it out and tucked it into the right pocket of his suit coat, and went downstairs, where he bought four cigars from Nowak. He walked down Broadway, trying to decide what he wanted for breakfast. It seemed he was always hungry.

THE truth was Hyde had been afraid of Niagara Falls since he was ten years old, when he went there with the sisters and a group of the boys from St. John’s Protectory. It was an outing to celebrate the end of the school year. They had a picnic and played baseball, and then they walked across the bridge to the Canadian side, which afforded the best view of the falls. They were all lined up along a railing, watching the white water cascade into the gorge. Hyde had never seen anything so powerful. The noise was constant, and a fine mist rose up and moistened their faces in the warm June sun. Something happened to people as they looked at the falls. Some had a look of awe; young couples stood with their arms about each other. But Hyde noticed one woman standing alone farther down the railing. She was in her mid-twenties and her shiny brown hair danced in the breeze. It was her eyes that made him notice her—she wasn’t really looking at the falls. Her hands gripped the railing, and she seemed to be waiting.

Hyde turned his head away for a moment, and when he looked back toward the woman she was gone. He couldn’t see her anywhere, and then there were voices raised and an elderly woman who was screaming, and then others joined in as people rushed to where the young woman had been standing. They looked over the railing, some pointing down into the gorge. Hyde started to
move to see better, but one of the nuns took hold of his shoulder and quickly guided him away from the railing. Something had happened—he didn’t know what, but something unexpected and terrible—and with sudden urgency the sisters ushered the boys back toward the bridge that would take them across to the United States.

The following day after morning mass, Hyde went into the main office of the protectory, where Father Baker always read the newspaper until the breakfast bell was rung in the dining room. Hyde found the article about a woman who had jumped into the gorge at the falls. It said she was Alma Worrell, a seamstress from Lackawanna. The names of her surviving family were listed—her mother, father, and brother. No husband, no children, and no reason given for her suicide. Hyde sat in the main office, the smell of bacon in the air and bees droning in the flowers outside the open window. Occasionally he was still awakened by a nightmare in which a woman in a long white gown descends through the mist and disappears into the roiling waters at the bottom of the gorge.

He didn’t want to follow the president to the falls but he was afraid not to, so he went by cable car and another enormous throng. He could only see McKinley from a great distance, using his binoculars. The president’s carriage seemed to push slowly through the crowd. His silk top hat gleamed in the sunlight.

The newspapers had treated the president’s visit as though it were a circus act. As part of his visit to Niagara Falls, the president would travel halfway across the bridge to Canada. It was considered a gesture of goodwill, for the benefit of the Canadians who were expected to gather on the other side of the gorge. According to the papers, there was real concern that the president not actually cross the international border because no formal invitation had been extended by the Canadian government. In fact, a line had been drawn halfway across the bridge, so the carriage driver would know where to stop and turn around. Still, there was a
moment of anticipation as the crowds on both sides of the gorge watched McKinley’s carriage move slowly across the bridge. Near the midpoint, the horses paused; the president stood up in the carriage and doffed his high silk hat toward the Canadians—their cheers could barely be heard above the roar of the falls. The moment seemed to linger. The horses were anxious to continue, and through the binoculars Hyde could see that the driver was having difficulty restraining them. It was a moment when a sharpshooter with a rifle would have a good shot. The president finally sat down next to the first lady. The carriage turned around on the bridge and returned to the American side of the gorge.