President McKinley had been brought for his convalescence to the Milburn mansion, the home of the president of the fair. Walter, Wilkie, and Hanna rode in a shiny black brougham with brilliant gold trim pulled by a glistening black horse in gleaming golden harness. The driver wore a top hat that Walter couldn’t afford and sat with posture that would have pleased a master sergeant. Harry had been left behind at the hotel, supposedly to get reports from Chicago. Walter sat facing the rear. As the carriage pulled away, he could see Harry through the oval window, standing at the curb. Harry had his hat in his hand and was rubbing his other hand across the top of his glistening head. Walter stifled a grin. Who was left in the hallway now?
The drive took about ten minutes and no one spoke. The streets around Delaware Avenue had been cleared for a block in all directions, a combination of coppers and army men standing silent vigil to the wounded president. The brougham was waved through a crowd of well-wishers and the morbidly curious who stood respectfully outside the line of uniforms. The onlookers were unable even to see the house. Maybe it was enough for some people just to say they were there, although Walter could not imagine why. The allure of passive participation had always eluded him.
When they pulled up at Milburn House, a man in a Stetson who looked no more than twenty was waiting to open the door. He wore a gold star Secret Service badge pinned to his vest, although Walter was mystified at how he could have gotten into the division so young. Hanna alit first, ignoring the boy’s proffered hand, followed by Wilkie. Wilkie stopped and whispered something in the boy’s ear. The boy nodded, quite serious, and then said, “Don’t worry, dad. I’ll see to it.” Young Wilkie then marched off toward the side of the house, swinging his arms tightly at his sides.
The walkway to the front door was a good forty feet in length, protected by a line of low trimmed boxwoods running along the sidewalk. Dense vines of English ivy covered the front of the house, cut only to prevent them from encroaching on the surface of the eight-foot windows on the first floor and the six-footers on the second. The main entrance was at the center and three other doors were spaced along the width of the house. Walter felt more as if he was entering a university or government administration building than a private home. If this was an example of the housing, even for a Brahmin, Niagara Falls powered electricity had rendered Buffalo a good more deal prosperous than Walter had realized.
Wilkie waited for him at the front door. “You address him as ‘Mr. President,’” he stage-whispered. Walter walked past him, pretending not to hear.
In the front hall of the mansion was enough manpower to mount a decent assault on a medieval fortress. Some were in uniform, most in plain clothes. When Hanna entered, a path was cleared to allow him a straight line across to a door at the far side. Hanna was remarkably bow-legged—Walter wondered if he had contracted rickets as a child—but everyone assiduously avoided giving notice to his rolling gait. Wilkie had easily regained his position close at Hanna’s heels. Walter didn’t rush, but was large enough to clear his own path.
He looked around as he walked through. Wilkie must have expanded the division because Walter didn’t know a soul in the place. Foster and Ireland were nowhere to be seen. Presence at the Temple of Music was apparently a disqualifying factor.
With little to do but stare at each other and try to establish territory, the lawmen were milling about or had broken off into small groups, muttering, swaggering, and fingering their weapons. Walter had always been amused at the impressive after-the-fact display of force that could be counted on in the wake of a screw-up. The bigger the screw-up, the more impressive the display. Can’t get much bigger than letting a president take two bullets at close range with almost as many Buffalo dicks, division operatives, and uniformed coppers standing around as were in this room now.
Hanna had reached the far side of the hall. Wilkie paused for a moment to whisper to a clean-shaven man in a blue suit whose close cropped hair was running to gray. Walter overheard the name Bull, for William S. Bull, the aptly-named Buffalo chief of police.
The president had been given a sitting room on the second floor that faced out over the Milburn garden at the rear. Mrs. McKinley, whose nerves were known to be quite brittle, occupied a bedroom down the hall, attended by her personal physician. A uniformed Buffalo copper was posted on either side at the foot of the staircase and another was posted at the second floor landing. Two more stood at either side of the door to the president’s chamber. All the guards made it a point to stand at attention and ignore their fellows, as though they were the palace guard for Queen Victoria.
Hanna nodded and one of the coppers swung open the door, stretching his arm so as not to place his body in the entrance. Hanna crabbed through, followed by Wilkie, then Walter. As he passed, the copper with his arm out favored Walter with a glare. Walter considered saying thank you, just to rub it in, but bit it back. The door closed softly behind him, the copper not daring to slam it as he would have preferred.
The parlor was a large, dark room, lined with dark wood paneling, furnished with dark plush furniture. The house had been wired for electric lighting, but the lamps were turned down low, giving the interior a feeling of perpetual late evening. A bed had been moved in, placed at the far side opposite the door. There, propped up on four pillows, wearing a white nightshirt open at the neck, was William McKinley, President of the United States.
The bulldog countenance of his photographs was not misleading. With a jaw as square as if it had been fashioned by a draftsman, McKinley might have been pale and wan, but otherwise looked remarkably fit for a man who had been shot twice just the day before.
Three men and two nurses flanked McKinley on either side of the bed. Walter assumed the men were all doctors. He wondered which one was Mann, the horticultural gynecologist. All five took a step back when Mark Hanna entered the room. This Walter took to be not only a testament to Hanna’s power, but also to McKinley’s progress in overcoming the effects of his wound.
Hanna and Wilkie moved toward the president, but Walter stood in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. McKinley raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers, bidding Walter to approach. Walter walked slowly to large bed, the president’s eyes on him for the entire journey. McKinley’s gaze was clear, his expression stolid. Walter could not read what he was thinking.
“Mr. Wilkie here tells me you’re his best man,” the president began. His voice was soft, but strong, unwavering. His speech betrayed a rural twang, but had acquired an overlay of cultured smoothness. A man who believed in self-improvement.
“Mr. Wilkie flatters me, sir,” Walter replied, not daring to look to a boss who had never done it before.
“No, I don’t believe he does. I’m a good judge of men and I feel quite bully about you being the one in charge of finding the people who set this up. Remember, Mr. George, this is not about me. I’m only one man. This is a crime against the nation we all love.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But listen to me carefully, Mr. George. There’ll be a good deal of panic and more than a little blood lust. I don’t want anyone railroaded. If someone was responsible in this affair, they should be brought to justice, but I don’t wish to see those innocent of the crime dragged before the bar simply because of their political beliefs.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” He answered casually, but was stunned all the same. Had William McKinley of bedrock Ohio, bastion of conservatism, taken an ecumenical view toward his enemies?
“There are some who would use this poor lunatic to sweep with a broader brush. Let me be clear. I’m no more fond of anarchists than any other right-thinking American, but our nation lives by the letter of the law. Do you agree?”
“Of course, sir.”
“If ever you believe you are unable to do your duty to your country as you think proper . . . for this is certainly a duty to the United States of America and not one to me personally . . . you need only to inform Mr. Wilkie or Senator Hanna. They will get word to me and we will halt any untoward activities in their tracks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be out of here in a week or so, according to these gentlemen . . .” McKinley cocked his head toward the doctor standing at the left of the bed, a bald man with a white, walrus mustache and long, thin face. He ignored the two on the right. “They tell me I’m making a remarkable recovery.”
“I’m very pleased to hear that, Mr. President.”
“I think that’s enough for now, Mr. President,” intoned the bald man. “You need rest above all.”
“That’s McBurney,” McKinley went on. “Up from New York City. Best abdominal surgeon in America, right doctor?”
“I would never claim as much, Mr. President,” McBurney replied in a manner that made it plain that the president’s assessment matched his own.
“He wants me to rest because he knows the vice president is due. Mr. Roosevelt exudes sufficient energy to suck the juices out of a man, and my juices are somewhat diminished at the moment. Isn’t that correct, doctor?”
“I am simply trying to ensure a speedy recovery, Mr. President.”
“Dr. Mann saved my life but these gentlemen have now taken his place. I’m assured that the danger of peritonitis is now minimal.” McKinley grinned. The corners of his eyes crinkled, leaving him to appear almost boyish. “Although I’ll spare you the details of how they made such a determination. In any event, I intend to be back in Washington and on the job as soon as possible.”
McBurney would brook no more, even from the president. He moved in toward the bed, signaled the nurses to follow and Walter knew the audience had ended. When he reached the door, he turned back toward McKinley, gave a short bow, and said, “The country will rejoice at your rapid recovery, sir. I’m extremely honored to serve you.”
Walter heard the last phrase come from his lips as if listening to someone else. He had always thought of McKinley as a stiff-backed, humorless man who cared only for power. And for Walter, authority had always borne an unsavory whiff. Although he knew it was childish, insubordination had always provided him intense satisfaction. But with McKinley, he seemed to have been in the presence of that rarest of species: an honorable man. Perhaps the United States was not in such bad hands with William McKinley at the tiller after all.
On the ride back, Walter once again sat facing Hanna and Wilkie in the rear.
“You seemed surprised by the president,” Hanna offered as they pulled away from Millburn House. “What were you expecting?”
“He was very . . . fair.” Walter wanted the words back as soon as they were out.
“Were you expecting him to be unfair?” Wilkie asked.
“I’m sure Mr. George meant no such thing,” Hanna interjected smoothly. “I’m sure he was simply surprised that the president held so little personal animus for the poor deranged wretch who shot him. That’s correct, isn’t it, Mr. George?”
Walter nodded, relieved for the reprieve, false though it may have been.
“Yes, the president is a fair man,” Hanna continued, gazing out the window. “Fair and decent.” He turned back to look at Walter. “Sometimes too fair and decent for his own good. Too forgiving. Too willing to ascribe a cowardly act to one man when it would seem certain to less fair, decent, and forgiving men that others must certainly have been involved.” Hanna lifted his left hand and toyed with the folds under his chin. “But you seem like a smart fellow, Mr. George. I feel certain you already figured all that out.”