Free The Anarchist by John Smolens Page B

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