1912: War for the White House, page 28
part #2 of Second American Civil War Series
So the Davies planned to go to New York City without serious thought about safety. Rutherford and Franz arranged several rallies at different places around the city over two days. These would take place on Monday, October 23rd.
They still had two days to travel. At every stop, Davies walked to the rear car to stand on its platform and deliver a few remarks to the crowd. At every stop, supporters and opponents greeted him with cheers and jeers. In Harrisburg, his Pinkerton guards hustled him into the train when the O’Brien group began throwing rocks. At a small stop in New Jersey, a friendly group gave him the keys to the town.
The President and Mrs. Davies focused on the support. Neither saw any need to increase security, they would win New York with the power of their ideas. Cheering supporters lined the route from Grand Central Terminal to the first rented lecture hall. O’Brien rented a building only blocks from Davies’s second stop, drawing many supporters to see and hear him. A few, denied access to the speech, used the time to heckle the Rationalist motorcade. After looting a fruit and vegetable stand, they pelted the cars with newfound ammunition.
In a rare moment of humor, Mrs. Davies responded to a tomato splattered on her window with the comment, “that’s not mine, I don’t like tomatoes.”
The entourage made it to the hall, and Davies started his speech.
“To my fellow New Yorkers, Americans, and workers of all manner, origin, and trade, thank you for letting me speak in your city. I want everyone here to know that I most firmly believe that we have a program that will meet your needs. I regret that some comments I made in the past. My opponent is using these statements, taken out of context against me. He does this to distract from his history of lining his pockets with your money. I stand squarely for the rights of all Americans, no matter their national origin.”
He continued speaking for an hour, talking about irrigation, electricity, telephones, wireless telephones, airplanes carrying passengers and mail. He promised automobiles for the average person, new power plants for high-speed ocean liners. He would abolish war and secure the borders (he did not elaborate on how he expected to do those at the same time). No one would go hungry. The audience, comprised of invited Davies campaign workers, not surprisingly, cheered loudly.
“Well, that went well,” Davies remarked as he left the hall.
Davies started to deliver the same speech half an hour later, in a mostly Irish neighborhood. A few blocks away, O’Brien addressed another group of his supporters. A mile away, Hughes spoke to a Constitutionalist rally.
About ten minutes into Davies's address, a man rushed the stage. Several members of the audience who were close to what happened next describe a moment of shock, followed by chaos. “I have an image burned into my mind, like a photograph. A man ran toward the stage. I thought ‘he has a gun,’ but I couldn’t move. Then the shots started, and my mind unfroze; within a few seconds, a bunch of us piled onto the shooter.”
As the shots rang out, the Security agents surrounding Davies pushed him down and piled on top to protect him. As they did, half a dozen members of the audience wrestled the shooter to the floor.
“Get the gun, get the gun.” One man yelled.
“I can’t, he won’t let go.”
“Damn it, break his arm if you have to,” somebody else shouted.
One large man grasped the shooter’s arm, pulled it up, and stomped on it, like breaking a stick. The bone broke with a sickening crunch and a scream of pain. Two men restrained the shooter by sitting on him until the police got to him.
Guards, a combination of Secret Service agents and hired Pinkertons, moved off Davies and started to check him for injuries. One agent lay in a pool of blood. The mayor of New York sat on the floor his back against a wall, looking stupidly at the blood soaking his clothing.
Davies groaned. “Can’t breathe.”
His staff carried him from the stage and took him to a hospital. Doctors quickly determined he had two broken ribs and no gunshot wound. The phone and telegraph lines already carried stories reporting the President shot to the entire country.
Justice Hughes did the best he could to excite the crowd, but a New York City just wasn’t Constitutionalist territory anymore. All three candidates were in town, dividing the public’s attention. So he did the best he could with a lukewarm reception.
Suddenly his bodyguards rushed on to the stage. “Sorry, boss,” one said as he grabbed Hughes's arm. “We need to go.”
“Wait,” he struggled, this was no way to end a campaign speech. “Stop.”
Suddenly he heard shouts at the back of the hall. One voice came through clearly. “Somebody shot the President.”
The bodyguards rushed him to a small ante-room where aides tried to provide information. Nobody knew much; the stories contradicted each other. He wanted, needed, to know more. The guards refused to let him leave, saying it wasn’t safe. A runner announced the shooting took place at Davies's speech.
“That’s an Irish neighborhood, I’m guessing they did it.”
“We must wait and see. Don’t guess. Wait for the facts. Is the President badly hurt?” Hughes responded mildly. “I must issue a statement expressing my sympathy for the President and his family and announcing my support for a full investigation of the incident.”
Half an hour later, another breathless man ran into the room.
“The shooter is in police custody. Some kid from…” the staffer read his notepad “…Montenegro? Where the hell is that? He told the police he hates Davies because the Congress of Nations was not defending his country from the Serbs.”
Hughes laughed and made an exaggerated motion of shaking his head.
“Well, there’s a good reason to shoot the President of the United States.
“So much for the Irish connection.”
A short time later, another aide reported that Davies was not seriously injured, the guards decided they could leave. Not having a reason to do otherwise, they walked out the front door and started down the steps, two guards on either side of Hughes. Suddenly a bright orange flash erupted to his left. The force of the explosion knocked him to the street, his ears ringing.
“Jesus,” he thought, “somebody threw a bomb at me.”
“Methinks he doth protest too much.”
“Katie?”
She handed the newspaper to me.
“Read this. O’Brien talks endlessly about how the Irish had nothing to do with it, even though it happened in an Irish part of New York. The shooter is from… where IS Montenegro?”
“Small country near Greece,” I said, “On the Adriatic Sea. About the size of Connecticut.”
She looked at me, skeptically.
“According to their legends during the Creation, God accidentally broke a sack full of leftover mountains, and the heap they formed is now Montenegro.”
“You looked it up, didn’t you?”
I couldn’t lie. “Never heard of the place before. You now know as much as the College Library.”
“Why would someone from Montenegro want to kill Davies? O’Brien can’t stop talking about him, says he’s a fanatical anarchist.”
“Because it's most likely true.”
“Well, that’s obvious. I’m just saying that I find it odd that O’Brien can’t give it a rest. Hughes' issued a statement wishing Davies a rapid recovery and expressing sympathy to Mrs. Davies. Rather good of him, I think, considering he also survived an assassination attempt.”
“Justice Hughes is an honorable man,” I replied. “Davies hasn’t said anything other than imaginative accusations.”
“If O’Brien was behind it, he’s stupider than he sounds.” Ted walked through a back gate in the picket fence to join Katie and me at our small outside table.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because nobody tried to kill him, now everybody and his dog thinks he tried to kill the competition.”
“So who did do it?”
Ted shrugged. “I doubt we’ll know. They say the shooter refuses to talk no matter what they threaten. And all they have of the Hughes’ bomber is body parts.”
“That seems odd to me,” Katie said, “Wouldn’t he have made a better bomb.”
The bomb killed six nearby victims, several people who could see the event made similar statements. The man lit the fuse, and the device exploded.
“I think the people behind it planned on getting the bomber and the target at the same time.”
Katie and I both looked at Ted. For one thing, we’d never seen him so gregarious.
“Would have been easy. Give your hired assassin a bomb with a one-second fuse, and tell him it's ten seconds.”
“That would cover their tracks,” I remarked, “perhaps they’ll sweat something out of the man that shot Davies.”
Pamela moved the chair across the hall, so she faced the door to the residence. She could still hear President and Mrs. Davies yelling, but at least it looked less like eavesdropping. At the far end of the hall, Tom came up the stairs carrying a tray with the silver tea service. Behind him, Mr. Franz climbed the stairs, escorted by a Secret Service agent. She found it hard to hear over the yelling in the residence, it sounded like Franz was telling the man how to do his job.
Pamela stood as the trio arrived. As she walked to the door, the agent jumped in front of her. “I’ll announce Mr. Franz.” He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked harder.
“What!” Both Davies yelled at once.
He opened the door slightly, speaking through the gap so as not to witness the scene inside. “Mr. Franz is here.”
“Send him in and shut the door.”
Franz entered, the door shut behind him, and the yelling started again. The Secret Service agent turned, took in Tom and Pamela, and looked toward the ceiling with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “You folks have a nice evening,” he said with an ironic smile. The remark startled both servants. Usually, the white people didn’t even notice their presence.
In the residence, Davies sat stiffly in his chair. He looked afraid to move. Mrs. Davies stood over him, looking distraught. Ignoring Franz for the moment, she continued to scold her husband. “We have to carry one with the campaign. The people need us, even if they don’t know it. We must fight for what we believe—“
“I’m not giving up! I just need to rest for a few days, I’m in pain.” He turned to Franz. “This is all your fault, damn you—“
“Dear, don’t swear, it's beneath you.”
“I’ll swear if I want.” He turned back to Franz. “I have three broken ribs, every breath feels like a knife. You told me I wouldn’t be hurt!”
“Wait, what,” Mrs. Davies said, stunned.
Both men ignored her. “I didn’t think your bodyguards would be so overzealous to protect you.”
“Well, they piled on like bad players in a football game.”
“What are you two going on about,” Mrs. Davies shrieked, “Did you plan an assassination attempt on yourself? Why I…I…” she sputtered to a stop.
The men ignored her and continued. “Mr. President, I apologize for that.”
“Well, it's done, and it looked realistic.”
“I demand answers!” Mrs. Davies screamed, “I demand answers now! What did you do?” She turned to Franz, pointing at him, her finger inches from his eye. “You tried to kill my husband!”
“Dear—“
“Don’t ‘dear’ me. You could have been killed.”
“We planned it carefully, I was in no real danger.”
“Then why are you complaining about broken ribs.”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down.” Suddenly, she turned to Franz. “You had me talk him into going to New York. Me! You tricked me into getting him in front of the bullet!”
“Mrs. Davies, the election is just over a week away. Mr. Davies will win reelection, and we can continue our program.”
“We don’t need you and this…” She waved her arms, struggling to find the word she wanted. Finally, she gave up. “Our program will succeed because it is the destiny of all mankind.”
She stepped in close to Franz, her face inches from his. “You almost killed humanity’s best hope for a civilized future.”
“Dear…”
She held up her hand, signaling Davies to silence. She glared at both men, speechless with anger. After an awkward tableau, she turned and strode out, not saying a word. Neither man spoke for a few seconds.
“Perhaps,” Davies said, “next time you can just go ahead and kill me.”
“Meanwhile,” Franz said, holding out a pen and paper, “sign this. It's the Declaration of Emergency we talked about. We’ll ask Congress to approve it—“
“Why are we doing that? The President can declare a state of Emergency any time he wants.”
“Sir, we talked about that.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, these pills the doctor gave me make my brain foggy. Just to keep the legal paperwork all ‘proper’ so to speak.”
“Correct. Right now, getting approval will be easy, and then there will be no questions later.”
“Right. Of course.”
About the time Davies and Franz implemented the next part of their plan, the guards at New York City prison changed shifts. The prisoner, who said he was from Montenegro and his “American” name was Danny, had just returned to his cell after another session in which he refused to say anything, even his last name. His body still showed bruises from efforts to encourage him to talk to investigators. The guards had orders to keep a twenty-four-hour watch through the bars. Because of a communication problem between the two shifts, he was alone for a few minutes. When the new shift took over, they found him dead in his cell, an apparent suicide. At least that’s the official story.
Following the assassination attempts, violence erupted across the country. In Seattle, a mob burned O’Brien’s local campaign office, another mob burned Davies in effigy. In San Francisco, random gangs fought in the streets. The Idaho mines closed down, rail strikes made travel difficult, if not impossible. New York City remained the epicenter. It began as three peaceful rallies, local surrogates filling in for the candidates.
“The voters have a stark choice,” a pro-Davies Congressman told a Rationalist crowd, “they can vote for a prosperous and peaceful future, or they can elect a criminal to the White House. Only Mr. Davies will rebuild American society. Only President Davies can restore American honor and liberty.”
A mile away, a state senator, an O’Brien supporter, challenged the incumbent and his supporters “to produce their proof of this alleged financial irregularities by our candidate. Oh, wait, they don’t have any.” The crowd laughed and cheered. “Like everything else about Mr. Davies he is full of…” the audience let the words hang in the air, “…nothing. The President is an empty suit and an empty soul.” More laughter and cheers followed.
Shortly, both groups decided to march through Manhattan, to display their numbers. The unavoidable fight broke out as soon as the two mobs met. Police, sent to quell the riot quickly joined in, each constable taking sides according to their political conviction. Throughout the night, the mobs splintered, withdrew, and reformed to keep fighting.
Lost in the street war, Justice Hughes pleaded for peace at his rally. No one listened.
The pain of his broken ribs forced Davies to stay in Washington, conducting business from his private study in the White House residence. On the night of the 26th, he met with Rutherford, the Attorney General Palmer, and Secretary of State Colby to discuss events around the country. At a discreet knock, his secretary rose from taking notes and opened the door. A messenger handed him a note for the President.
Davies read it and passed it around the table. “We can’t let hooligans take over the country,” said Palmer, “we need to put a stop to this.”
“What can we do?” Colby asked.
“Send in the Army.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Colby protested, “this country doesn’t use soldiers against its own citizens. I’m not sure it's legal.”
Palmer walked to the big bookcases lining the walls. Selecting a volume he started leafing through pages. “Here’s the relevant statute.”
“Go ahead.”
“Section 5297 of the Revised Statutes:
‘In case of an insurrection in any State against the government thereof it shall be lawful for the President, on application of the legislature of such State, or of the executive when the legislature cannot be convened, to call forth such number of the militia of any other State or States which may be applied for as he deems sufficient to suppress such insurrection, or on like application, to employ for the same purposes such part of the land or naval forces of the United States as he deems necessary.’”
“Does that note meet the requirements?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Palmer responded, “The Mayor of New York City has asked the Governor of the state to request our help. That’s all we need.”
“Very well see to it.”
“Mr. President, we’ll have to use regular Army units, the Governor has lost control of his own National Guard, they’re fighting one another alongside the rioters.”
“Secretary Palmer, draft an executive order declaring Martial Law in New York, we must restore order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make it clear, New York City is under Army control until order is restored.”
“Yes, sir.”
The four men drafted an order for the Army to take command in New York. It said in part:
“The measure of your authority is what necessity dictates. State civil functions and processes should not be displaced or interfered with when they can be successfully employed in the suppression of violence and the restoration of order. Persons arrested should ordinarily be turned over to the proper State authorities as soon as practicable. Should you find that State judicial procedure only results in the release and return to the scene of disorder of persons whose presence and conduct tend to prevent the restoration of normal conditions, you may find it necessary to retain in military custody those whom you arrest. Persons in military custody will be held under authority of the United States, and a writ of habeas corpus issued from a State court should be met with a return declining to produce in court the body of the prisoner on the ground that he is held under the authority of the United States. In case of a writ issued from a United States court you will obey the writ, produce the body of the prisoner, and state in full the reason for restraint, reporting the fact direct by telegram to The Adjutant General of the Army.”
