“We’ll be very careful, sir.”
Twenty-Eight
It took Caroline forever to find the communications tent where she could send a telegram to Gray about the shocking warning in Luke’s letter. Did Captain Holland have something to do with bombing the road to Havana? She could only pray that Gray might be able to make sense of these confused ramblings.
There were three people ahead of her in the line to send telegrams, and she’d never been so tempted to cut to the front. Especially because the woman at the counter was taking so long parsing her words to save a few pennies.
“She’s been haggling over those words for the past five minutes,” the stocky businessman ahead of Caroline groused. “I’m tempted to pay the fee myself just to move her along.”
A commotion in the distance snagged Caroline’s attention. Odd. Some people were running toward the fairground’s exit, while others were rushing the other way.
“Do you know what’s going on?” the man in front of her asked.
“I have no idea,” she replied, but the commotion continued.
The businessman stepped out of line to approach a cluster of people standing beneath a nearby lamppost. He leaned in as the crowd began speaking and gesticulating wildly. She wanted tojoin them but wouldn’t surrender her place in line. Thankfully, the businessman soon returned, his face grim.
“They say the president has been shot.”
“No!”
It couldn’t be. She had been in a carriage with him only a few hours ago, and everything had been normal. The last event for the day was a simple indoor reception in a controlled setting with plenty of security.
“It was at the Temple of Music,” the businessman said. “An anarchist. He got off three shots before the cops got him.”
“What about the president? Is he dead?”
The businessman shook his head. “They’ve taken him to the fairground’s hospital. He’s in surgery now, God save his soul.”
Caroline ran, heading toward the hospital. The crowds got thicker, people standing before the building in stunned disbelief.
Had Ida been told yet? It would be dreadful. Ida was going to be destroyed, but someone needed to tell her. Caroline bumped past a burly man and through a group of gawking young boys, shoving forward through endless crowds. She finally reached a line of police officers standing shoulder to shoulder and blocking access to the hospital. She approached the one with the most brass on his uniform.
“I need to get inside,” she said. “I’m with the president’s party.”
“No one’s getting inside, ma’am.”
“Please!”
Why at this most important moment in her life couldn’t she think of a way to be more persuasive? The policeman’s face was implacable; she had no chance of swaying him. A group of grim-faced men clustered on the hospital porch, and she recognized one of them.
“George!” she shouted, and thankfully she got his attention.
He broke away from the group and strode down the hospital path toward her. The police parted to let him through, and hetugged on her elbow to pull her from the crowd and toward an empty spot beneath the hospital awning.
“How is he?” she asked through chattering teeth.
“Alive. He kept saying he isn’t seriously hurt, but there’s no such thing as a shot to the abdomen that isn’t serious. One bullet struck his vest button and is only a flesh wound, but the other went into his gut. A third bullet went wild. They’re operating now.”
“Has the first lady been told?”
He nodded. “A messenger was immediately dispatched. You should go to her.”
“Of course. Is there anything else you need me to do?”
“Pray,” he said.
News of the shooting flew through the telegraph wires all over the nation, and reporters were congregating outside the hotel that had been quickly identified as housing the presidential party. Police guarded the doors, but Sven was there and let Caroline through. Inside, she found other members of their party assembled in the dining room, which had been closed to the public.
