The Anarchist (9 page)

As the train drew to a halt, the crowd cheered and applauded while arms and flags waved in the brilliant September sunlight. A marching band was vigorously playing the last bars of a John Philip Sousa tune that Rixey had been hearing all his life but still
did not know by name. He looked down at Ida McKinley, dressed in black despite the warmth of the day, and watched her raise her handkerchief to her forehead.

“Can I get you anything, Mrs. McKinley? A glass of water before we alight?”

“No, Presley, thank you.” She offered him the faintest smile. “I’ll be fine.”

“We have arranged for a wheelchair to be at the platform.” “You are always most considerate.”

The band concluded its number, and just as the crowd broke into applause there was a loud, percussive explosion. Dr. Rixey instinctively crouched down and turned his back toward the impact, which seemed to come from the depot platform. There followed another explosion, and then another. There was screaming inside the coach. Security men were moving, shouting; Mrs. McKinley’s niece Mary appeared to have fainted on a sofa—or perhaps she had been wounded. The explosions continued, developing a precise rhythm, causing Rixey to realize that it was only the military salute. The soldiers were too close to the train and their rifle fire was deafening.

But the salute continued, and just as Rixey looked down at the first lady the windows on the platform side of the train blew in, raining glass on everyone, amid more shouts and screams.

And then it was over. Outside, the cheering swelled to a nearly ecstatic pitch, the crowd not realizing what had happened on the train. Passengers got to their feet, glass crackling beneath their shoes. Rixey leaned down to Mrs. McKinley, who was deathly pale.

“I’m all right, Presley.”

“Are you sure?”

But then she raised her head and looked past him, and a brightness, even a faint joy, entered her weary eyes. Rixey knew who it was, stood up, and turned around. William McKinley’s broad, soft face was absolutely serene as he gazed at his wife. His
blue-gray eyes, as Rixey had noted many times, maintained startling clarity and focus.

Standing a little behind and to the right of the president was Mrs. McKinley’s youngest nurse, and a look of panic had taken over her face as she stared at the first lady. Rixey turned quickly and saw that Mrs. McKinley was showing the first signs that she was about to have one of her seizures. Her left eyelid had begun to droop and there was a rapid twitching in that cheek. A series of deep furrows had developed in her forehead, and her mouth trembled as spittle foamed from the corners. Her pulse was visible in the side of her gaunt neck. Aghast at such a sudden transformation, everyone around her seemed to have frozen—this too Rixey had seen on numerous occasions. No one seemed able to do anything to help her. Even Rixey still felt somewhat helpless.

The president stepped toward his wife’s chair. Calmly, yet deliberately, he removed his handkerchief from inside his frock coat and unfurled it with the slightest snap of the wrist, as though he were an amateur magician who had developed such little dramatic flourishes to conceal his lack of technical skill. Leaning down, he carefully draped the handkerchief over Mrs. McKinley’s contorted face, and then he said quietly, “It will be over in a moment now, dear.”

Rixey looked about at the others—staff members, Cortelyou, several security officers. They returned his gaze expectantly, hoping he could make this silent, awkward moment pass. But Rixey did nothing. Though he was the doctor, he’d learned to simply do nothing during these quietly tense moments, for this was, perhaps as it should be, a uniquely intimate occasion between husband and wife. Long ago Rixey had learned that it was best not to interfere.

The handkerchief seemed to have a life of its own, quivering as it rested over Mrs. McKinley’s face. Her husband remained close to her, supporting himself with both hands on the armrests of her chair.

A good minute passed and no one moved. Though there was still the noise of the crowd outside, it was as though an eternal silence and stillness had descended upon the coach. Only the handkerchief trembled, as if by some spiritual force.

Finally, the handkerchief became still, and McKinley gently removed it by the upper corners, uncovering his wife’s face: her eyes were closed, her mouth slack but calm, set in its usual frown. She might have been asleep.

But slowly she opened her eyes—the left lid still slightly recalcitrant—and gazed up at her husband inquiringly.

“Better now, dear?” he asked.

“Yes, Major,” she whispered.

He straightened up and smiled.

Suddenly, Rixey moved toward the sofa, where Mrs. McKinley’s niece was beginning to stir. The doctor took her hand, which was warm, and gently placed his fingertips over her wrist to feel her pulse. The girl’s eyes were not dilated; her cheeks were pleasantly flushed.

“I’ll bet you could use a glass of water,” Rixey said.

The girl nodded slowly, awed, it seemed, by such remarkable perception. Rixey himself was surprised at how calm he sounded. But it wasn’t so—the explosions seemed to have ignited his nerves.

There was a beverage tray on the table next to the sofa; Rixey poured water into a glass and gave it to the girl. He noticed, as he put the pitcher back on the tray, that his hand was not shaking. She took a sip of water, and then smiled at him.

“You see?” The president’s baronial public voice addressed everyone in the saloon. “Does anyone question why we always keep the good doctor near at hand?”

There was polite laughter, which more than anything seemed to express a collective sense of relief.

George Cortelyou approached McKinley, his face slick with perspiration. “Mr. President, we might attempt a different mode of transportation into the city, and I could begin to make arrangements.”

McKinley looked at his wife, and then turned to Cortelyou. “Everything is fine now, George. Why don’t we proceed as planned? I gather there will be an even larger crowd waiting for us at the exposition. If we keep them waiting too long, they might all turn into Democrats.”

CZOLGOSZ was in the crowd when the president’s train arrived at Amherst Station in Buffalo. He had never been in such a noisy, suffocating crush of people. He was pushed and jostled as everyone pressed toward the tracks, where a line of security men and uniformed police blocked the crowd from surging across the platform. He held his right arm tight to his side, to protect the revolver in his coat pocket.

Slowly he found openings in the crowd and inched toward the front. He was not a tall man, only five foot eight. Parasols held high made it difficult to see the train, which was at least fifty yards away. It was impossible to tell which coach McKinley was in, and there was nothing to indicate where or when he might descend from the train. A line of carriages stood waiting, to be led through the exposition grounds by guardsmen on horseback wearing plumed hats. Finally, Czolgosz reached the front of the crowd and came face-to-face with a burly policeman.

Somewhere to the left there was a scream. Turning, Czolgosz saw a tall man take a swing at one of the policemen, his fist glancing weakly off the round helmet—She only result was that the brim was knocked down over the officer’s eyes, causing people nearby to laugh. But the policeman in front of Czolgosz shouted “Here now!”—and shifted to his right, reached through the crowd, and took hold of the pugilist’s upper arm. The pushing and shoving increased to the point where Czolgosz was unable to keep
his balance, and he fell forward past the guard, his hands scraping the brick platform.

He was hit several times on the back of the head and shoulders, and then he was lifted up by both arms by two policemen. They hustled him along the front of the crowd and then heaved him off the platform, as one of them shouted, “Here you go now!”

Czolgosz landed on his hands and knees in gravel. He felt his coat pocket—the pistol was still tucked away. Getting to his knees, he turned and saw the two policemen working their way along the platform, continually shoving back at the crowd. He stood up and staggered away from the noise and confusion.

THE McKinley administration’s best-kept secret was the first lady. Soon after Presley Rixey became the president’s physician, he learned that one’s political importance could really be determined by the extent of one’s knowledge of Ida McKinley’s condition. The public had no idea, of course, because the press corps assigned to cover the Executive Mansion had little understanding of the first lady’s history of ailments. When the McKinleys had married, William was a young Ohio lawyer and a retired Civil War major who had served under Rutherford B. Hayes, and his bride was the independent, spirited daughter of one of Canton’s wealthiest bankers. They had two children, one who died within days of birth and another while still a baby. After the loss of the second child, Ida McKinley became extremely withdrawn, and over the years suffered bouts of depression, which were complicated by various illnesses, including epileptic seizures. She was obsessively dependent upon her husband, who always came faithfully to her aid.

During McKinley’s first term as president, his staff realized that perhaps their greatest obligation was seeing to the first lady’s constant needs. Though remarkably frail, she insisted upon being
included in the endless ceremonies and duties that were incumbent upon the president. At the frequent large dinners held at the Executive Mansion, the president broke with protocol and sat next to his wife. At receptions she would be placed on display in a chair, holding a single flower in her lap as an indication that guests should not attempt to shake her hand. Through it all, the president was ever the doting husband, but such constant solicitude was clearly a burden.

As the president’s physician, Rixey had as his primary responsibility the first lady’s comfort and health. Her seizures were frequent and could last a few seconds or several minutes; when they occurred in private, either the president or Dr. Rixey would stand behind her chair and gently massage her temples. When the seizure ended, she was usually confused and often didn’t know what had just happened. It could quite naturally sour her disposition and make her demanding and even obstinate. Rixey knew he was retained as the McKinleys’ physician for his patience and discretion as much as for his medical expertise.

Thursday, September 5, had been declared President’s Day in Buffalo, and well over one hundred thousand people were expected to pass through the gates of the Pan-American Exposition. The president’s schedule was, as always, coordinated by his personal secretary, George Cortelyou. It was commonly perceived within the administration that McKinley was able to function so well as president because of Cortelyou’s meticulous care and attention to detail. During their visit to Buffalo, the McKinleys and their staff were staying in the home of John G. Milburn, president of the Pan-American Exposition. That Thursday morning after breakfast Rixey took Cortelyou aside in the front hall. “George, you must cancel the entire program.”

“Everything?” Cortelyou asked. “Including his speech?”

Rixey, who was well over six feet tall, leaned toward Cortelyou. Years earlier as a naval officer, he had come to realize that his height gave him a unique vantage point. And often people tended to be drawn to his height as though seeking protection. But not Cortelyou. He was a man of about forty, at least a dozen years
younger than Rixey, and had sleek dark hair and a full mustache. Though Cortelyou was always poised and impeccably mannered, beneath his officious veneer lay steely nerves.

Rixey glanced toward the open front door, where McKinley and several other men were enjoying their first cigars of the day on the front lawn while they waited for the carriages to arrive. “We should cancel these public appearances and get the president to Washington.”

“But, Doctor, we’re anticipating that tens of thousands will attend his speech. When has a president had an opportunity to address so many at once?”

Rixey’s fingers stroked his full mustache, shaping it over his upper lip. “George, that’s what worries me.”