“You don’t want to wait for the opening of the sarcophagus? It won’t be long now.”
She shook her head and ran, bumping into tourists wandering the exhibits. She would send a telegram to Gray immediately, for he knew Captain Holland too and might know what to make of this odd message.
Nathaniel stood with other members of the president’s party backstage at the Temple of Music. Soon McKinley would deliver a brief farewell address, then shake some hands. It was their final event before they boarded the train back to Washington.The president insisted on attending this farewell reception even though the first lady was too tired to join him. All Nathaniel had to do was survive the next hour, and they could return to the controlled safety of the train.
“Ice!” Sullivan crowed as he carried a pitcher and glasses on a tray to where they waited backstage behind the curtain.
“Bless you,” President McKinley said, still hot from the outdoor speech. “Perhaps after the reception we’ll all have something a little stronger.”
Sullivan grinned. “I saw the train’s cook wheeling in a huge crate of fruit, red wine, and brandy.”
“It sounds like fresh sangria,” the president said with a hearty smile. “We shall have a fine time tonight!”
The local police lieutenant popped his head behind the curtain. “The squad is here and in place,” he said.
Nathaniel glanced at the president. “Ready?”
“I need two minutes.” President McKinley shrugged first into his vest and then into his formal coat. It was hot for such attire, but the president never made public appearances without being formally dressed. It was only going to get warmer as thousands of excited people funneled through the auditorium for a chance to shake his hand.
President McKinley wiggled a red carnation into his lapel and gave a nod of acknowledgment to the master of ceremonies, who stepped around the curtain to provide an introduction. Applause filled the auditorium as the curtains pulled back, and Mr. McKinley gave a broad smile to the crowd, waving and nodding to those lined up near the front.
Nathaniel moved into position directly behind the president’s right shoulder, while Sullivan stood on the other side. The president spoke for only two minutes, commenting on the weather, praising the fair, and thanking the crowd for attending.
Then they stepped down from the stage to stand at the front of the auditorium’s center aisle for the hand-shaking. Twoofficers began walking down the aisle, inspecting people as they funneled closer to the president.
The line moved quickly, with dozens having passed in the first five minutes. Nathaniel scanned for anomalies, but mostly he saw overly hot, excited people. An immensely fat, grandmotherly woman leaned on a cane as she trudged forward, two ordinary-looking men behind her.
Then came an insipid man, indistinguishable except for his hand and arm swaddled in bandages, but behind him was the tallest man Nathaniel had ever seen. He was a black man, at least six and a half feet tall, and his hands were in his pockets. He wore the uniform of a Pullman porter.
“Hands out of your pockets,” Nathaniel called to him, and the porter obeyed.
Then two gunshots cracked through the air, and chaos broke loose.
The next few seconds lasted for an eternity.
Nathaniel leapt in front of the president, but McKinley was already falling to the ground. Sullivan lunged toward a cluster of men struggling over a gun. A fight broke out. The black man tackled the shooter and struggled for the gun as a third shot rang out. Nathaniel straddled the president’s body, bracing for the impact of another bullet, but none came. He gaped at the thrashing men only a few feet away.
The man with the bandaged hand—the bandages had been hiding a gun. The porter wrenched the pistol away, and Sullivan dove in and punched the gunman in the face, blood flying. Police swarmed, grabbing the gunman’s hands and pinning him to the ground as the pummeling continued.
Blood was spreading over McKinley’s chest and abdomen. “Get a doctor,” Nathaniel shouted to one of the officers.
Despite his injuries, the president was still conscious. “Go easy on him, boys,” he gasped to the men beating the shooter.
The following minutes were a haze of confusion. People screaming. Bodies pushing and shoving as the gunman continued to thrash while shouting obscenities. Then a policeman punched him so hard that he stopped talking.
Two men arrived carrying a stretcher they set down beside the president. “Sir, we’re going to move you to the medical building,” the orderly said.
McKinley nodded. “All right. Do it.”
Nathaniel squatted alongside the orderlies. The color drained from McKinley’s face and he groaned in agony as they heaved him onto the stretcher. That groan ripped through Nathaniel’s heart, but he had to stay calm. As soon as the police cleared a path for the makeshift stretcher, they were on their way.
The hospital was only a few acres ahead. Heat and sunlight pounded down, and appalled onlookers watched as they carried the president, covered in blood but still conscious. Some of the onlookers wept, some crossed themselves.
It was cool inside the modest hospital as orderlies scrambled to prepare the operating room. Nathaniel walked alongside the president the whole way. They set him on the operating table, and McKinley gestured for Nathaniel. He looked awful, his face pasty white and covered in perspiration.
“Be careful how you tell her,” he whispered. “Be very careful.”
Nathaniel’s heart lurched. He had failed everyone. His president. Mrs. McKinley. This good man lay gasping for air, all because Nathaniel hadn’t noticed that bandaged hand in time.
