The Anarchist (41 page)

“I’m guessing that’s them moving about in the barn.” Savin looked over his shoulder at Rutherford. “You stay here. Anyone comes out of that house armed, you take them down. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What if they’re not armed?” Hyde said.

Savin seemed disappointed by such impertinence, and he kept his eyes on Rutherford. “You draw a bead on them. If they see us, or if they are headed into the barn, you fire a warning shot. If they are armed, we shoot.”

“Yes, sir.” Rutherford cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t want me to go back to town for more men?”

“I was under the distinct impression that your sergeant wasn’t
willing to grant me any.” Savin’s grin was quick, vicious. “I am fortunate he let me have you.” The grin disappeared, and he said, “Your sergeant is so worried about getting Czolgosz off the train? We came in at that station—it’s right across the street from the prison. It’s not even fifty yards.” He looked at Hyde for support. “Auburn look like a town capable of mustering a lynch mob?”

“He murdered the president,” Hyde said. “You saw the crowds in Buffalo.”

Rebuffed, Savin gazed toward the farm. “Never mind. You come with me, Hyde.”

They crept along the creek bed, moving to their right. Every time Hyde glanced over the top of the bank he could see that they were getting closer to the barn. Suddenly there was a sound from the house—a door opening on a squeaky hinge—and they stopped. They looked through pasture grass, saw a smudge of white moving toward them, and they dropped down behind the bank.

“It’s the girl,” Hyde whispered. “The one that came into town with Josef.”

“Damn.”

They held perfectly still, listening to her approaching footsteps in the grass. Then she stopped and there was silence, followed by the sound of water. Looking over the edge of the bank, Hyde could see her squatting in the grass, her long skirt gathered in one hand. She was blond, slender, and in the moonlight her pretty face seemed complicated by uncertainty. When she was finished, she stood and continued walking, though not directly toward them, but off to their right, and then she disappeared as she climbed down the bank to the creek bed. She wasn’t ten yards away, just around a bend in the creek.

And then there were more footsteps, these running through the grass, and Hyde saw Josef sprinting toward the edge of the pasture. He climbed down the bank where the girl was, and there was absolute silence.

Hyde and Savin stood motionless, their guns pointed at the sky. Minutes passed and nothing seemed to happen. Hyde waited for Savin to give him some signal, but his face was within inches of the muddy bank, and he continued to look at the snare of roots that were in the soil. Then, from around the bend in the creek, came the faintest sound—a soft, feminine sigh—followed by a moan and a gasp, and then there was breathing, rapid, rhythmic, in time with the hard slap of flesh.

Savin raised his free hand, made a fist, and pumped it twice.

The sounds of their coupling tended toward a greater concentration, until there was a brief explosion of noise, the girl yelping, and Josef gasping in utter desperation. It was the only time Hyde had ever heard the boy make any kind of verbal sound, and toward the end it almost seemed as though he were trying to speak some foreign language. Hyde wondered at the fact that their orgasm sounded so close to anguish.

And then it was over, and they were quiet. It was like they weren’t there, around the bend, until suddenly the girl pleaded, urgently, in a half whisper,
“Please
, Josef, we have to leave, we have to tonight—right now. If you stay here, you know you’ll die. You know what they’re going to do. You won’t live through it, I know you won’t. Let’s just go. Take me away from here—anywhere, I don’t care. Somewhere they’ll never find us.”

She stopped at the sound of the door to the house closing, followed by a set of footsteps, first coming across the barnyard, scattering chickens, and then sweeping through the grass. Hyde ventured a look, and though it was very dark—the moon had passed behind clouds—he could see a man walking toward the creek. He stopped ten yards away and said, “You come up out of there, hear me?” His arms hung loose at his side and he wore a rumpled straw hat.

Finally there was the sound of feet scrambling for purchase in the muddy bank as the girl and Josef climbed up out of the creek and stood at the edge of the pasture. The girl’s blond hair was in
disarray and her blouse was untucked from her skirt. Her pale feet were covered with mud.

“Daddy,
please,”
she said.

“Step aside, Lydia.”

“You have to understand.” She took a step forward.

The man raised his right arm—he gripped a pistol in his hand. The man said nothing. Josef stood still. And then there was a shot, which snapped the man’s head to the side, sending his straw hat flying as his body fell to the ground.

The girl screamed as she went to her father. Josef turned and stared toward the woods, and then he began running for the barn. Three men appeared in the open door, backlit by lamplight. One of them, Bruener, shouted something in German to Josef.

Savin stood up, took aim, his free hand bracing his elbow, and fired. The girl, kneeling over her father, shrieked. Gimmel and Bruener disappeared into the barn. Savin fired again. Josef stumbled, but then managed to hobble into the barn and out of sight.

NORRIS was awakened by the first gunshot. Animals in the barn took fright, their feet prancing nervously on packed earth. Bruener shouted in German.

A second and then third shot sounded closer.

Norris shifted, pressing his forehead against the stall fence, and through a gap in the boards he could see Bruener standing inside the large, open front door of the barn. Then Josef staggered into the barn and sprawled on the ground, clutching his left thigh. Gimmel led Tuck to the rear of the milk wagon. As he collected firearms—a rifle and several pistols—Gimmel said, “Hitch up the team.”

Gimmel returned to the front door, where Bruener was kneeling
over his son. They argued in German, but finally Bruener and Josef took guns and positioned themselves on both sides of the open entrance to the barn. Bruener fired two rounds with the rifle. Gimmel picked up the lantern and returned to the milk wagon, where he climbed in the back and pulled the doors shut. The barn went dark, and outside it was quiet except somewhere the girl was sobbing as the moon passed from behind a cloud.

GEARY and Solomon weren’t eating, but they sat in the room with Czolgosz while he ate a ham dinner with potatoes and lima beans.

“See? His appetite’s good,” Geary said. “He had just that little moment there in the courtroom, but he’s fine now.”

“A special train will take you to the prison in Auburn,” Solomon said.

Czolgosz ate some potatoes and beans, and then put down his spoon. “Tonight?”

“Ten o’clock,” Solomon said. “Once they get security set up, you’ll be taken out to the train. It’s not a hundred yards from city hall.”

“You won’t be going with me?”

“No,” Solomon said. “You’ll be in the custody of the sheriff of Erie County.”

“We’ve made sure that they have cigars for you on the train,” Geary offered.

Solomon got out of his chair and he opened the door before looking back at Czolgosz. “It was good thing, you speaking for your family there in the courtroom,” he said, and then he went out into the hall.

Geary stared at his folded hands on the table. “For the rest of my life, Leon …” He seemed chagrined at his choice of words.
“I told you, I was the one that caught the president after he was shot and eased him back into a chair. I wanted this assignment. I wanted to hate you. I will never understand why you did this thing. You seem like a good sort to me. I mean, if we had met somewhere, had a drink or a meal, I think we would have—”

“You probably wouldn’t even speak to me,” Czolgosz said.

“You don’t know that,” Geary said, but then his face became angry, and he was clearly embarrassed by this. “We don’t know—we’ll
never
know.” He was having some difficulty breathing and his voice was higher than usual. “But you made a decision and now there’s no getting around it: you’re going to get on the train to Auburn. I don’t know that many men would be as calm as you through all this. Something in that I admire—I know I shouldn’t say it.” He got to his feet and extended his right hand. “Goodbye, Leon.”

Czolgosz didn’t stand up, but he shook Geary’s hand—there was a moment when Geary didn’t seem able to let go, but then he did and he went out through the door quickly. Czolgosz listened to his footsteps, along with Solomon’s, disappear down the hall.

Czolgosz stared at his dinner; there was more ham but he pushed the plate toward the middle of the table. He heard movement outside the door and, raising his head, watched a man step inside the room—and another man, older, in his late fifties, stop out in the hall. “My name’s Sheriff Caldwell, and this is Detective Mitchell, and we’re going to escort you on the train.” Both men wore bowlers and raincoats over their suits. Caldwell was tall and quite stooped in the shoulders; Mitchell was built like a prizefighter and he seemed quite pleased with himself. Czolgosz was reminded again that this duty was something of a privilege. All these policemen would be distinguished from others because they had been assigned to guard the man who had assassinated President McKinley.

“I’d rather have Solomon and Geary take me,” he said.

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you,” Caldwell said.

They went to his cell, where there was a pan of warm water, a shaving kit, and towels. While he washed and shaved, Caldwell and Mitchell watched as though they had never seen a man shave before. At one point he paused and said, “I ain’t going to slit my throat, you know.”

When it was time to go, he was handcuffed to Mitchell and taken outside. Dozens of policemen lined their route. Czolgosz boarded the Pullman car and sat next to Mitchell. Caldwell joined a group of detectives at the front of the car. There were at least thirty men on board, and Czolgosz recognized some of them but didn’t know their names.

Once the train got under way the men began to relax; there were sandwiches, pickles, a wheel of cheese, and they sat in small groups eating and talking. Czolgosz was allowed a cigar and he stared out the window as the train crept through the neighborhoods of Buffalo. Though it was dark outside, he could see that there was no crowd, no mob.

“All this security for nothing,” he said.

“That’s why we’re moving you at night,” Mitchell said. “But word is out that you’re being taken to Auburn. It’s impossible to keep something like this quiet.”

“Once the verdict and sentence are pronounced, it doesn’t matter to anyone.”

“I hope you’re right. We have a ways to go. Should arrive in Auburn at three a.m.”

Czolgosz looked out the window again. “I’ve always loved trains.”

A man who had been speaking to Caldwell came up the aisle and sat down in the seat facing Czolgosz. He crossed his long legs, being careful of his tweed suit. “Leon, my name’s Louis Seibold. I’m a correspondent for the
New York World
. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Czolgosz stared at him through cigar smoke. “It cost you to get on this train?”

Seibold glanced at Mitchell and said, “Dearly.” He took a small notebook and pen from inside his coat. “The police have been picking up anarchists all over the country.” He spoke quickly, as though he were afraid of running out of time. “This will be the end of anarchism.”

“Or the beginning of the workers’ revolt.”

“Well, I suppose you have to believe that,” Seibold said. “Did you hear about the man they nabbed in St. Louis who claims he tied the handkerchief around the gun for you?”

“I haven’t heard anything about a man in St. Louis.” Czolgosz drew on his cigar. “I know what you want me to say. The handkerchief wasn’t tied. I wrapped the gun in the bandage myself, and then I got in line to meet the president.” As the reporter wrote in his notebook, Czolgosz realized that the scratching sound of a fountain pen had always bothered him. “My father—I am sorry I left such a bad name for him.”