A Gilded Lady, page 23
The Secretary of the Treasury wanted to move quickly. “No one can sell this proposal better than the president himself,” he said. “Get him to Washington now, while sympathy is still high.”
“Not until he is ready to travel,” George said.
“But you said he is on the mend,” the secretary blustered.
George remained implacable. “He is, but sticking him on a train for two days could jeopardize that.”
The bickering continued, and Caroline lost interest in the quagmire of congressional maneuvering, reconciliation bills, and procedural motions. She hadn’t taken this job out of political motivation. She’d stupidly accepted the job because she thought it would be fun.
Her gaze strayed out the window, where a delivery boy rode past on his bicycle, tossing several copies of this afternoon’s newspaper toward the house. Normally he would have ridden up to the front porch, but the soldiers standing guard in the front yard made it impossible for anyone to get close.
She excused herself from the discussion of international tariffs and went to collect the newspapers. She was only yards away from the president’s sickroom, but she was entirely dependent on the newspaper to track the ongoing investigation into the shooting.
She nodded to the pair of army guards sitting on the front porch. One of them had already snatched a copy of the paper and had opened it wide, his nose buried deeply in the interior. It was a little disconcerting. Shouldn’t he be guarding the house rather than engrossed in the newspaper?
“Any news?” she asked.
He startled and closed the paper. “Just checking up on the world, ma’am.”
She took an educated guess. “And what vital events have occurred in the world of baseball?”
The guilty flush on his face indicated she’d guessed correctly. He sent her a bashful smile. “The Brewers beat the White Stockings, five to one. Life is good.”
She ought to be annoyed, but oddly it was exactly what she needed to hear. Inside the house, it was tense with anxiety and political rumblings, but in the rest of the world, life went on. Baseball games were played, the apple harvest was in full swing, and college classes were in session. While her corner of the world was shrouded in darkness, she needed to remember that somewhere the sun was shining.
“Did the Washington Senators play?” she asked.
The soldier looked momentarily surprised but cracked the paper open again in search of an answer. “They beat Boston, five to three.”
“Good,” she said softly, then leaned down to pick up the rest of the newspapers. She’d leave a few for the men in the parlor, but first she needed to scan every page before delivering a copy to Ida. If there was one negative word about the president, that page would be “lost” before it was delivered to her. Caroline carried the newspaper to a wicker chair at the far end of the porch. It would be easier to read out here amid the rustling of autumn leaves instead of the political haggling inside.
The front page was a shock. Emma Goldman had been arrested in Chicago and would soon be transferred to stand trial in Buffalo. A ghoulish political cartoon labeled her “the high priestess of anarchy.” Ten others had been arrested on the strength of their participation in various anarchist groups and publications. A sick feeling took root as she continued reading, for the news got worse. Members of Emma Goldman’s family had been arrested to pressure her into turning herself in. The adolescent children of Abe Isaak, another anarchist, had also been arrested, one girl only fifteen years old.
“This isn’t America,” she whispered. “This isn’t America.”
But it was, and Nathaniel had his hand in it.
After exchanging a dozen frustrating telegrams, Caroline finally tracked Gray down in Kansas, where he’d gone to help with the sale of the farm belonging to Annabelle’s family. The farm had no electricity or access to a telephone, so it had taken some doing for them to arrange a time and place where he could accept a long-distance telephone call from her.
She stood in the hallway off the hotel kitchen where a telephone was anchored to the wall. It wasn’t private, but she would finally have a chance to talk to Gray about Luke’s cryptic message regarding Captain Holland. She had made no headway in what Luke was trying to say about Key West, but perhaps Gray could make sense of it.
It had been a long day, and her shoes pinched while listening to a series of operators patch her call through the switchboards in Pittsburg, Columbus, Indianapolis, Springfield, Topeka, and finally to the pharmacy in Junction City, Kansas, where Gray was awaiting her call.
“Caroline?” his voice finally came over the line. “How are you doing? How’s the president?”
All over the nation, it was the only thing people were talking about, and she answered as best she could. President McKinley had been doing well but seemed weaker today. Perhaps setbacks were to be expected during the long recovery process. Then she got down to the matter at hand.
“The Hebrew portion of Luke’s last message said to stop talking to Captain Holland. That he is dangerous.”
“But I thought you trusted Captain Holland,” Gray said.
“I did, but Luke clearly doesn’t. As soon as I’m back in Washington—”
A telephone operator’s voice interrupted them. “Breaking in with an emergency message from Milburn house,” she said. “Doctor Winston needs to speak with George Cortelyou immediately.”
Caroline’s heart seized. “Gray, I need to go.”
“Go,” he ordered, and Caroline dropped the earpiece, running to the dining room where the air was thick with cigar smoke and political gamesmanship.
“George, you’re needed on the telephone.”
He must have noticed her stricken expression, for he sobered as he stood. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Dr. Winston is asking for you.”
George followed her back to the telephone, holding the earpiece so they could both listen as Dr. Winston’s tinny voice came across the wire.
“Gangrene has taken root in the president’s wound,” he said. “It’s spreading quickly, and his temperature has soared. There is no hope. I don’t expect him to survive the day.”
Caroline sagged against the wall. Infection was everyone’s greatest fear, but he’d survived a full week and had been getting better. She stared at George, irrationally hoping he’d say something to mitigate the doctor’s terrible message, but he looked as stunned as she felt.
“The president has asked for a pastor,” the doctor continued. “He knows he’s dying.”
George thanked the doctor and hung up the earpiece.
What are we going to do? What are we going to do?
She didn’t realize she’d been speaking aloud until George answered her.
“We send for the vice president.”
Thirty
William McKinley died at two o’clock in the morning, eight days after being shot. Theodore Roosevelt arrived later that day to a city in shock. There would be no formal inauguration, only a grim swearing-in ceremony that would occur in a few hours.
Caroline tried to blank out the noise from downstairs while sitting at Ida’s bedside. A doctor provided heavy sedation for Ida, who had reached her limit. Downstairs, hammers banged as black crepe was nailed over the windows. Doors and footsteps thudded with the constant coming and going of government personnel. Ida didn’t even flinch as another needle was inserted into her arm to administer more sedative.
“The Major will want to go back to Ohio,” she said, staring out the window. “It’s where our daughters are buried.”
“I shall arrange it,” Caroline said. It would have to be after the official state funeral in Washington, but Ida had the right to determine where her husband would be laid to rest.
Ida turned her head to look at an enormous wreath of white lilies that had been delivered earlier. “I’d like to take the lilies,” she said. “The Major loves the scent of lilies, and he will enjoy having them on the train.”
Caroline glanced at the doctor, who also noticed that Ida continued to speak of her husband in the present tense. Perhaps it was just the shock. She sat by the first lady’s bedside until the additional sedation took effect, but wasted no time in drafting a schedule for someone to be by Ida’s side for the next several days. She couldn’t be left alone, but Caroline had other duties in urgent need of attention.
Mercifully, Ida’s sister was ready to fill the void. “This looks fine,” Pina said after reviewing the schedule. “You look exhausted. I’ll take over.”
Caroline squeezed Pina’s hands, then headed downstairs, where plans for swearing in a new president were underway.
George didn’t want the ceremony in the same house where President McKinley’s body still lay, so a home a few blocks down the street was chosen. Members of the cabinet, a judge, and two newspaper reporters would be the only witnesses.
Caroline was grateful she would not need to attend, for the train carrying the president’s body would leave for Washington within a few hours. What a terrible few days lay before them. Had it only been nine months ago when she and George were planning the grand inaugural festivities?
Now they would plan the president’s funeral.
Nathaniel sat at a small table in the kitchen of the Milburn house. Staff took their breakfast here, but he was unable to eat. He just stared, knowing there was something he should be doing but unable to remember what.
Caroline approached. She hunkered down on the kitchen floor, her hand on his knee, and she was saying something, but she spoke too quickly for him to understand.
“What?” he finally asked.
“The security schedule. President Roosevelt’s train leaves for Washington at six o’clock this evening. You’ve got plenty of soldiers from the army who will be aboard, but they need assignments.”
She shoved a paper into his hands. The security form. He needed to fill it out, but hearing Mr. Roosevelt being called president had thrown him.
Because President McKinley was dead, and it was his fault. Now he needed to guard a new president. He set the form on the table, staring at the blank lines needing to be filled in with security personnel. Caroline stood over him, as though she expected him to do it immediately.
“I’ll do this soon,” he said, pushing the form a few inches away. He couldn’t look at it yet and took a long sip of coffee instead. Maybe it would help beat back this avalanche of exhaustion clobbering him. He doubted he could rise from this chair if his life depended on it.
Caroline looked at her watch. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Please have it ready.”
The acid of the coffee ate at his stomach. The thought of being responsible for another president’s life was . . . well, he couldn’t do it. Not now, anyway. Normally he could fill out this form blindfolded, but not now.
Maybe later. Maybe soon he’d have the strength to stand up and help with the flurry of activities going on around him, but right now it would be far too much effort. He stared at the cup of coffee growing cold before his eyes, wondering what he should do.
Caroline and George juggled telegrams, made lists, and took turns using the Milburn house telephone. They needed to transfer the president’s body, arrange for the lying-in-state at the Capitol, and summon thousands of troops to march in the funeral procession. She wanted church bells to toll along the route as the funeral train made its journey to Washington, and wrote out a list of towns to contact for local arrangements. There would be two memorial services, one in Washington with thousands of dignitaries, and another private ceremony in Ohio. She would make the arrangements for both.
All of it needed to be scheduled within the next twenty-four hours, but the most urgent matter of business was coordinating President Roosevelt’s security on the train to Washington. That duty fell to Nathaniel, but a glance down the hallway showed him still staring blankly at the form. It had been twenty minutes, and he hadn’t made a single mark on it.
George interrupted her thoughts. “Caroline, the hearse to carry President McKinley to the depot is here. Have the flowers arrived yet?”
She glanced at her list of tasks. “I sent a pair of army privates to collect them from the florist. They should be here shortly.”
The president’s hearse would be draped with an American flag and a mourning bouquet of white lilies, but she also wanted red carnations. Mr. McKinley was famous for wearing a red carnation pinned to his lapel each day, and she ordered boutonnieres of red carnations for the men who would accompany his body home.
“And Mrs. McKinley? Will she be able to travel on the president’s train?” George asked.
“Pina says she will. She will be sedated, but I’ve arranged for a private nurse to accompany her. George, I think I need to contact Wilkie.”
“Why?”
She glanced down the hallway toward Nathaniel sitting at the kitchen table. “There’s something wrong with him. He can’t function. We need to assign someone else to oversee security for President Roosevelt’s trip to Washington.”
“Are you sure? I haven’t been paying him any mind.”
She had. Nathaniel had been completely detached ever since McKinley’s death ten hours ago. She scrambled for the most delicate way to phrase the problem.
“He’s taking it badly. He blames himself, and he’s exhausted. We cannot ask this of him.”
George nodded. “Can you handle the telephone call to Wilkie? I just got word that I’ve been asked to witness the swearing-in ceremony. It’s in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
It would break her heart to convey this news to Nathaniel’s friend and supervisor, but she couldn’t ignore the problem, and there was no time for delay.
Six hours later Nathaniel stared out the window of the presidential train as it sped through the countryside, a notebook on his lap with a list of the towns they would pass on the way to Washington. His only official duty was to place a little checkmark beside each church that tolled their bell as the train passed. Caroline planned to send a note of thanks to each of them after the funeral.
Rain droplets rolled across the window and obscured much of the view, but he spotted the steeple of a white clapboard church rising above the trees in the tiny village of Osterburg, Pennsylvania, straight ahead. As the train drew closer, the faint tolling of church bells could be heard, and he made a check beside the town’s name.
All around him, the other passengers spoke in muted tones. This was the railway car holding the dozens of journalists who’d flooded into Buffalo to cover the president’s shooting. Sullivan and a pair of army officers rode in the car with President McKinley’s casket. Wilkie and half a dozen other agents rode in President Roosevelt’s car, but Nathaniel was relegated to ride with the journalists.
It was just as well. He’d rather be back here, noting the tolling of the bells.
“Complete disaster,” he heard one of the journalists on the bench ahead of him say. “Why wasn’t everyone frisked before entering the building?”
The other journalist shook his head. “It was obviously a total breakdown of security. Pathetic.”
Nathaniel turned to stare at the sodden fields of ryegrass passing outside the window. He’d overheard similar comments the entire journey. He didn’t defend himself, because they were right. He kept staring at Caroline’s list of churches, carefully noting each one that had gotten her message to ring their bells.
One of the journalists stood to call out to someone near the front of the car. “Hey, Robertson, what date was President Garfield assassinated?”
Robertson stood to reply. “September 19th, 1881. Here we are, exactly twenty years later, and we’ve got another president shot to death. When are we going to figure out how to handle presidential security?”
There was some general nodding and murmuring, but two rows ahead, Rembrandt got out of his seat and headed down the aisle toward Nathaniel. There was pity on the photographer’s face as he took the vacant seat beside him.
“Pay them no mind,” Rembrandt said quietly. “They don’t know you like I do.”
“They’re not saying anything I don’t already know.” Nathaniel didn’t have the energy to feel angry or defensive. Part of him wished he could ignore what was being said, but he needed to listen for the tolling of the bells. There were over a hundred churches on the route, and he wanted to turn in an accurate list to Caroline. That meant he had to listen.
Earlier, one of the journalists had reported that Emma Goldman had been released from jail. In cities all over the nation, people had been agitating for revenge, and the police, lawyers, and politicians all did their best to pin the crime on prominent anarchists.
Others disagreed. A handful of lawyers came forth to claim that the First Amendment granted anarchists the right to speak their minds freely, and Goldman had been released.
Another weight settled on Nathaniel’s chest. It probably wasn’t Emma Goldman’s fault, anyway. It was his fault. Rembrandt and the others had been saying all sorts of kind things to soften his role in this tragedy, but he knew the truth.
“How about you and I go out for a decent meal once we’re back home?” Rembrandt suggested. “We can go out for a nice plate of Chesapeake blue crabs.”
Rembrandt was trying to be nice, but the next town on Caroline’s list was coming up, and Nathaniel had a duty to perform. He gave Rembrandt an apologetic look.
“Forgive me, but I need to be sure this list is accurate.”
Mercifully, Rembrandt understood. He clapped a reassuring hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, then returned to his own seat a few rows ahead.
It was pitiful, but this mindless checklist was the only thing holding his sanity together right now, and he wasn’t going to let Caroline down.
On Tuesday, September 17th, Nathaniel put on his best suit to stand alongside thousands of others lining Pennsylvania Avenue to watch the president’s funeral procession. Wilkie had suggested he leave White House duties entirely, but that was unthinkable. He couldn’t leave in the middle of a national emergency. It would be the ultimate failure.
