“I’ll need some help getting Mrs. McKinley’s wheelchair unstrapped from the rear boot,” Nathaniel said to Captain Dorset. “The first lady also brought some bouquets that need to be unloaded.”
Captain Dorset ordered a pair of soldiers to help with the tasks while Nathaniel scanned the grounds. The yard was small, bordered by a hip-high brick wall and shaded by towering oaks. There were no clear lines of sight. A small Marine band of a dozen soldiers were in formation with their instruments at the ready. A few civilians gathered outside the wall began clapping as Mrs. McKinley descended from the carriage. The twoMarine guards maintained a stoic expression as they carried the towering bouquets of daffodils and tuberoses that were so tall, they completely obscured their faces.
“Let’s get inside quickly,” Nathaniel said to Captain Dorset. He didn’t want to wait for the band to play. All that could be handled indoors.
“Actually, we’ve moved the ceremony outside,” the captain said. “The weather is cooperating, and the hospital cafeteria is a dreary venue for an unveiling.”
Nathaniel straightened. “But the cafeteria is a protected location. I didn’t bring enough security for an outdoor ceremony.”
“Let’s move the bouquets to either side of the podium,” Captain Dorset directed the two Marines. A podium and ring of seating had already been set up. The band moved into position, and the small crowd began to clap.
“We’re moving the ceremony inside,” Nathaniel insisted. Captain Dorset had no authority over this event. As the agent in charge of the first lady’s security, Nathaniel had the ultimate say on anything regarding the first family’s safety.
“Are you sure?” Caroline asked. “It’s so much prettier outside.”
“I’m sure,” he said, striding toward Mrs. McKinley, who was already seated in her wheelchair.
Captain Dorset reluctantly agreed and gestured for the Marines with the bouquets to head inside. The band members stood, and Caroline turned the first lady’s wheelchair, heading toward the front door.
Someone in the crowd began shouting. Something about the war and blood on McKinley’s hands. Sunlight glinted off the barrel of a shotgun among the civilians.
People screamed, and Nathaniel scooped Mrs. McKinley into his arms, lurching with her toward the open door of the carriage. He grunted as he hoisted her inside. Two loud blasts shattered the air. Flower petals scattered everywhere. Peopleyelled. A pair of civilians vaulted over the low brick wall, heading straight at him, one shouldering a shotgun. Nathaniel dumped Mrs. McKinley onto the carriage floor, then threw his body over her and pulled the door shut.
“Go!” he shouted at the driver. “Go!”
Mrs. McKinley lay sprawled beneath him, but he jerked upright, looking out the window at the yard. Caroline was screaming and huddled behind the wheelchair, and flower petals drifted in the air like snow. Marine guards tackled the men, but one of them hurled red paint at the door of the hospital.
The carriage reached the street, and the horses gained speed, the yard disappearing into the distance.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked.
She looked up at him in a combination of fear and horror. “I’m all right. Are you?”
Something warm trickled down his neck, and he touched it, his fingers coming away bloody. He’d been hit. Strange, he hadn’t felt the pain until now. A few pellets of birdshot rolled off his suit jacket. He pulled away so the blood wouldn’t drip on her.
“I’m fine,” he said. He grasped Mrs. McKinley’s arms to heft her up onto the bench. The roar of blood in his ears pounded like a drum, and perspiration covered his body.
He started to shake, finding it hard to breathe. He’d done his job. The first lady was safe. He looked out the window, but the hospital was no longer in view. He’d abandoned Caroline and the others, but he’d done his job.
It took less than ten minutes to get back to the White House, the carriage careening through the streets at breakneck speed. Someone must have telephoned ahead, for members of the staff and Dr. Tisdale awaited their arrival. Mrs. McKinley was unharmed but given a sedative nevertheless.
Sullivan immediately briefed Nathaniel on what happened in the hospital yard. The two protestors were tackled by members of the Marine band. Both men rambled about war atrocities and the blood on President McKinley’s hands. They’d obviously hoped for a shot at the president, but when it was clear he wouldn’t be there, they settled for a shot at his wife. The president had cut short his trip to the Treasury and was already back home, comforting his wife, whose nerves were still tightly wound despite the sedative. Caroline and Rembrandt arrived home minutes later, both shaken but unharmed.
Not so Nathaniel. He’d been hit with a spray of birdshot. It hadn’t been able to rip through his wool suitcoat but caused a mass of wounds on his exposed neck and left hand. Dr. Tisdale cleaned the wounds and spread a bandage over the side of his neck. The skin on his hand was torn and swollen. The doctor insisted on putting his arm in a sling to keep the hand elevated and close to his chest.
Nathaniel stayed in his office late that night, nervous energy making it impossible to relax. Besides, he needed to write a new rule forbidding any alterations to a meeting with the president without written approval from the Secret Service. It shouldn’t even require stating, but a high-ranking man like Captain Dorset had made the blunder, so it needed to be formalized in writing. The sling was on his left hand, but it still slowed down his writing.
It was after nine o’clock when someone tapped on his office door. All day he had been visited by members of the staff to congratulate him, though he didn’t feel like a hero. His lack of vigilance had put Mrs. McKinley in an unsafe situation.
“Come in,” he said.
It was Caroline. The fact that she was still circulating with complete freedom in the White House was another security flaw, but he’d already tried and failed to have her removed. She was dressed casually, but a spray of lilies of the valley waspinned in her hair. The lilies reminded him of those ridiculously huge bouquets of flowers he’d been forced to bring in the carriage. They’d ended up being a distraction and a security breach. He would add a ban on security agents assisting with carrying frivolous items to his list of new rules.
“I came to see how you are,” she said, glancing at his sling and swollen hand.
“Fancy opera gloves won’t fit,” he said tersely.
“You don’t need to be rude,” she replied, still standing in the open doorway.
