The Anarchist (27 page)

“Aye.” Bruener followed Gimmel down into the cabin.

Hyde stared out into the rain for a few minutes, and then he whispered, “You should get out now, Anton, go back to your wife.”

“I take care of
myself.”

“Your wife worries about you, your sister worries about you.”

“Don’t you mention my sister.” Anton looked away, disgusted, but after a moment he turned to Hyde and said, “I thought I beat you so you wouldn’t see her no more.”

“You couldn’t beat me enough times to keep me away.”

“My sister knows many men. Why does she feel this way about you?”

“I don’t know,” Hyde said.

“Are you in love with her?”

“Yes.” Hyde knew Anton was staring at him, but he kept looking forward. “Yes, I am, and I would like to get her out of Big Maud’s. She doesn’t belong there.”

“For some time I think my sister is lost, dead. Like my parents and our other sister, who died on the ship. But now I do not know.
You get her free, Hyde, and my dead family will smile down on you. You understand this is what I am saying?”

“I understand, Anton. And I will try.”

“Good. Since I beat you in this fight, I feel I must to protect you. Like a brother.”

“You didn’t beat me, Anton.”

“I did.”

“All right, you beat me.” Hyde turned to Anton then. “But I’m telling you that you should go to your wife. Katrina told me you think this is going too far. It’s not too late for you to get out of this. Tomorrow will be too late.”

“Now who will be the dreamer? You heard Bruener. They grabbed Quimby because he talks to the police. Who knows what will happen with him? What do you think they do if I walk away now?” Anton glared at Hyde. “Bruener has trust for you more than me.”

“It’s because I go to meetings.”

“I go to meetings!”

“And because I know Czolgosz, what he looks like.”

Anton shook his head. “It is because you are not a Jew.” Then he laughed. “I think Gimmel is a Jew, but Bruener has trust for him—because he is a famous bomb-throwing Jew from Chicago.”

“Bruener’s afraid of Gimmel. He’s afraid of all men who are smarter than he is.”

“Then he is afraid of everybody.”

“Listen
to me,” Hyde said in a hoarse whisper. “If you die tomorrow, your wife might work in Tasczek’s Tavern the rest of her life. You wife, your son, and the baby, too. Then maybe next time she’ll marry a Polish boy, a Catholic like her family wants. You want to die and smile down on that?” Anton was about to speak, but Hyde said, “This is wrong, Anton, and you know it. You
know
that whatever Gimmel does will not help one worker.”

“No,” Anton said, “it will not.”

“So go, go now. They will forget about you.”

“Sure, and end up like that whore in the canal? No, I stay.” Anton leaned toward Hyde, curious. “You really think you can get Motka out of that house?”

“I can try.”

“You do that, and I will not beat you up anymore.” He tapped Hyde’s chest with his fist. “Anymore. Think on that!”

“It would be like I died and went to heaven.”

They looked out at the wind and rain.

E
LABORATE ARRANGEMENTS HAD been made for the Sunday-morning procession that would take the president’s body to city hall. Having spent so much time administering to the president in life, Dr. Rixey wanted little to do with these preparations. His primary concern now was Mrs. McKinley, and he kept close to her throughout the morning. As always, she exhibited stiff resolve under pressure, and she was also fanatically possessive. She was adamant that her husband’s body be returned to the Milburn house from city hall no later than six Sunday evening.

Before the procession there was a religious ceremony in the Milburn living room, consisting of the reading of the fifteenth chapter of First Corinthians, plus the singing of two of McKinley’s favorite hymns, “Lead, Kindly Light” and “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” which, since it had been the song he sang himself within moments of his passing, had become something of an anthem for all the events surrounding the assassination. During the half-hour service the enormous mahogany coffin was open; the president’s head rested upon a pillow of white tufted satin, his left hand lay across his chest, and he was dressed in a black suit, with a small Grand Army of the Republic button on the lapel. His features seemed deflated, and his expression still bore the signs
of suffering—this was what affected Rixey the most, the obvious tension that had gripped the president’s face as he endured acute pain in his final moments.

When the ceremony was concluded, the coffin was closed and placed in a heavily fringed hearse drawn by four black horses. There was a military contingent in the procession: national guardsmen, marines, army regulars, and sailors from the U.S. frigate
Michigan
. Rixey rode in a carriage with Cortelyou and the first lady. No one spoke and Mrs. McKinley kept her head bowed, only occasionally glancing out at the crowd that lined Delaware Avenue. Rixey couldn’t help but look: people stood at least a dozen deep along the curbs; many wore buttons that bore the image of the president and read
WE MOURN OUR LOSS,
or
WE LOVE HIM,
or
HE LOVES US.
Much of the black bunting that had been hastily draped on buildings along the avenue had been blown down overnight; a number of trees were inadvertently swathed in black, which seemed oddly appropriate. Along the route were many army veterans in uniform, standing in the rain, some with missing limbs. The size of the crowd grew as the procession neared city hall, where a queue of thousands waited patiently to pay their respects. They wore overcoats darkened by the rain, except for a number of Indians, who came in buckskin and full headdresses.

At city hall, Rixey and Cortelyou climbed out of the carriage while the casket was taken inside, where it would lie in state throughout the afternoon. As the queue began to file up the stairs, the first lady’s carriage turned around and waited for the military escort that would accompany it back to the Milburn residence. It had been decided that Cortelyou would remain at city hall, while the doctor would go with Mrs. McKinley.

Rixey stared at the crowd, the police, the somber spectacle that was taking place in the rain, and just before stepping back up into the carriage, he leaned down to Cortelyou and whispered, “You know what I
really
want, George?” Cortelyou looked at him, surprised by the force in his voice. “I want to see him.”

“Him?”

“I want to see Leon Czolgosz.”

At first Cortelyou seemed to not comprehend, but then he nodded and whispered, “Yes, all right. I’ll arrange it.”

THERE were two carriages in the penitentiary courtyard, each drawn by a pair of impatient horses; they snorted and stamped their hooves, jingling their harnesses, every sound ringing off the cobblestones and bricks. Norris stood with Savin as they waited for Czolgosz to be brought out. Feeney was trying to calm the horses. There were guards at the iron gates and out in the street, and riflemen stood watch from the penitentiary roof.

“I’m putting Czolgosz in the first carriage,” Savin said.

“Right,” Norris said. “You’d figure he’d be in the second.”

“Make the bastard lie down on the floor, out of sight.”

“Put me in with him, Lloyd. I’ll keep him down.”

Savin was smoking a cigarette. “No. And if something happens, I want you Pinkertons coming at them with shotguns. That’s why I brought you. A mob sees you with shotguns, they’ll back off.”

Norris was afraid of this, and he knew that Savin was right. But he wanted to be close to Czolgosz; he wanted time to look him in the eye and see what was there. He felt he had earned the right. Nobody else had even heard of Leon Czolgosz before the president was shot. Nobody else had an investment in him like Norris. “What’s the matter?” he said jovially. “You can’t handle a shotgun?”

“Forget it,” Savin said. “You Pinkertons have the reputation for dealing with mobs. You want to be part of this, then you ride in the second carriage. I’m riding up front with him, and that’s all there is to it. He’s my responsibility.”

“You got that?” Norris said to Feeney, who was trying to keep out of it. “The mob’s our responsibility.” Feeney had calmed the horse he’d been patting and his face was now so close to its nose that they were practically kissing. “So if it gets ugly, Feeney, and we end up shooting anybody, they can blame it on the Pinkertons. Because the Buffalo police don’t shoot citizens.”

Savin dropped his cigarette butt on the cobblestones and said, “You don’t want to be a part of this, just say so.”

Norris knew Savin didn’t have any choice, that he’d been given orders to do it this way. The papers were full of complaints about Chief Bull, who had restricted access to his prisoner and had moved him several times without informing anyone in the federal government. Tomorrow morning Czolgosz would finally be charged with a crime. After today things would be very different, very public.

“All right,” Norris said quietly, “but I’ll tell you one thing. If somehow a mob gets ahold of the bastard, I shoot him. You understand, Savin?”

“You wouldn’t rather he be torn apart in the street?”

“Shooting him would be no act of mercy. I just want to make sure he dies.”

“What you want is to be remembered for the one who did it.”

“You got to admit it would be some legacy.”

Savin was angry now and was about to speak, but the door at the end of the courtyard opened. The three men who stepped outside were handcuffed together. The one in the middle, Czolgosz, was considerably smaller than the two guards. His shoulders were narrow and hunched forward. His fedora was cocked on the back of his head and he stared at the cobblestones as he walked toward the carriages. He seemed to Norris so insignificant that it was an insult. He didn’t look up; he showed no interest in his surroundings.

Savin raised an arm and the guards brought their prisoner to the first carriage. “You put him in here.” He said to Czolgosz,
“Lie down on the floor and don’t sit up until I tell you to. We’re leaving the windows open so people can see me and your two guards. Understand?” He waited until Czolgosz nodded his head. “You try to get up,” Savin said, “I’ll put the first bullet through your kneecap.”

One of the guards took a set of keys from his vest pocket and began to unlock the handcuffs. Norris stepped up so that he was standing directly in front of Czolgosz. The man continued to stare down at his feet. When one cuff was unlocked, the keys were passed to the other guard. Czolgosz seemed more than uninterested in what was happening; he appeared to not even be aware of it—he could have been standing in this courtyard alone, studying the erosion of cobblestones. Norris tried to will the man to raise his head, to lift his eyes and look back at him, but he wouldn’t do it. His face was quite pretty, sensitive even. Norris stepped even closer, but still Czolgosz didn’t react.

Norris worked up a large wad of spit, leaned over, and dropped it on the man’s left shoe.

No one moved.

The larger of the two guards said, “That’s not necessary.”

“You care?” Norris said.

“You care to clean it up?” the guard said.

“Solomon.”
The captain might have been speaking to a dog. “Just put the prisoner in the carriage, like I said.”

Solomon was a big man with hard, intelligent eyes. His face was broad, his skin taut and waxy, and he had a full mustache that resembled a cowcatcher on the front of a locomotive.

“I wouldn’t want to ride with that piece of shit at my feet anyway,” Norris said.

He looked over and nodded at Feeney, who had stopped petting the horse. They walked to the second carriage and climbed inside. Two shotguns were lying on the floor, with a box of shells. They picked up the guns, broke them open, and loaded the double chambers.

From above, the carriage driver said, “Just be careful where you point those, boys.”

Norris snapped his shotgun closed, rapped the barrel on the carriage roof, and said, “You shut up.”

The driver laughed as he slapped his reins on the horses’ backsides, and the carriage jerked forward.