Free The Anarchist by John Smolens Page A

many events and appointments as a result, and this two-day visit to Buffalo had been rescheduled, primarily to give the president an appropriately large audience to deliver what he considered a major speech, one that would establish the goals for his second term of office. It was an opportunity that could not be missed; seldom was there an event outside of Washington where so many Americans would gather to see and hear their president. Newspapers speculated that when McKinley addressed the audience at the exposition on September 5, he would appear before the largest crowd to ever hear an American president speak.
    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 stilldid 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. Hisblue-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