Rain droplets rolled across the window and obscured much of the view, but he spotted the steeple of a white clapboard church rising above the trees in the tiny village of Osterburg, Pennsylvania, straight ahead. As the train drew closer, the faint tolling of church bells could be heard, and he made a check beside the town’s name.
All around him, the other passengers spoke in muted tones. This was the railway car holding the dozens of journalists who’d flooded into Buffalo to cover the president’s shooting. Sullivan and a pair of army officers rode in the car with President McKinley’s casket. Wilkie and half a dozen other agents rode in President Roosevelt’s car, but Nathaniel was relegated to ride with the journalists.
It was just as well. He’d rather be back here, noting the tolling of the bells.
“Complete disaster,” he heard one of the journalists on thebench ahead of him say. “Why wasn’t everyone frisked before entering the building?”
The other journalist shook his head. “It was obviously a total breakdown of security. Pathetic.”
Nathaniel turned to stare at the sodden fields of ryegrass passing outside the window. He’d overheard similar comments the entire journey. He didn’t defend himself, because they were right. He kept staring at Caroline’s list of churches, carefully noting each one that had gotten her message to ring their bells.
One of the journalists stood to call out to someone near the front of the car. “Hey, Robertson, what date was President Garfield assassinated?”
Robertson stood to reply. “September 19th, 1881. Here we are, exactly twenty years later, and we’ve got another president shot to death. When are we going to figure out how to handle presidential security?”
There was some general nodding and murmuring, but two rows ahead, Rembrandt got out of his seat and headed down the aisle toward Nathaniel. There was pity on the photographer’s face as he took the vacant seat beside him.
“Pay them no mind,” Rembrandt said quietly. “They don’t know you like I do.”
“They’re not saying anything I don’t already know.” Nathaniel didn’t have the energy to feel angry or defensive. Part of him wished he could ignore what was being said, but he needed to listen for the tolling of the bells. There were over a hundred churches on the route, and he wanted to turn in an accurate list to Caroline. That meant he had to listen.
Earlier, one of the journalists had reported that Emma Goldman had been released from jail. In cities all over the nation, people had been agitating for revenge, and the police, lawyers, and politicians all did their best to pin the crime on prominent anarchists.
Others disagreed. A handful of lawyers came forth to claimthat the First Amendment granted anarchists the right to speak their minds freely, and Goldman had been released.
Another weight settled on Nathaniel’s chest. It probably wasn’t Emma Goldman’s fault, anyway. It was his fault. Rembrandt and the others had been saying all sorts of kind things to soften his role in this tragedy, but he knew the truth.
“How about you and I go out for a decent meal once we’re back home?” Rembrandt suggested. “We can go out for a nice plate of Chesapeake blue crabs.”
Rembrandt was trying to be nice, but the next town on Caroline’s list was coming up, and Nathaniel had a duty to perform. He gave Rembrandt an apologetic look.
“Forgive me, but I need to be sure this list is accurate.”
Mercifully, Rembrandt understood. He clapped a reassuring hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, then returned to his own seat a few rows ahead.
It was pitiful, but this mindless checklist was the only thing holding his sanity together right now, and he wasn’t going to let Caroline down.
On Tuesday, September 17th, Nathaniel put on his best suit to stand alongside thousands of others lining Pennsylvania Avenue to watch the president’s funeral procession. Wilkie had suggested he leave White House duties entirely, but that was unthinkable. He couldn’t leave in the middle of a national emergency. It would be the ultimate failure.
Nevertheless, his demotion was obvious to all. Sullivan was now in charge of presidential security, and Nathaniel was one of hundreds of men stationed every ten yards along the funeral route. A light drizzle started to fall as the procession began, dribbling down the side of his face, but he refused to move. He needed to stand at attention and bear witness as his last official duty to a good and decent man.
First came a drum corps, playing a somber muffled drum beat, followed immediately by a hearse bearing the president’s flower-draped casket. After that came President Roosevelt in an open carriage drawn by four black horses, followed by the Supreme Court justices wearing their robes of office, then officers from the army and navy in full military regalia.
Signs of Caroline’s hand in the dignified ceremony were everywhere, from the red carnations worn by the presidential guard, the brigade of old Civil War soldiers, and the selection of a lone silvery bugle’s soaring requiem as the procession passed. It was very Caroline. Perfect, always.
Not like him. He stood in the rain, the wet wool of his suit itching and the sense of failure nearly strangling him, but he owed it to his president to stand at complete attention. When he had the energy he would plant red carnations in a park down by the river. Mr. McKinley used to walk there in the evenings, and those carnations would be a quiet memorial to one of the best men Nathaniel had ever known.
A man he had failed.
Thirty-One
Out with the old and in with the new.
That was the mantra Caroline repeated to herself in the days after the president’s funeral. She managed the thousands of condolence messages while George masterfully juggled the new president’s schedule. Pina shouldered the primary duty of comforting Ida, leaving Caroline to help steer the White House toward welcoming in a new administration. She handled tasks both high and low. She ensured protocol was met for visiting dignitaries and served coffee to the journalists who camped outside the White House. She decided menus, handled correspondence, and planned the Ohio funeral.
The Roosevelts gave Mrs. McKinley as much time as she needed to vacate the White House, but already architects and planners had begun discreetly measuring the building for a substantial renovation. The Roosevelts had six children, ranging from four to seventeen in age. The modest family quarters were inadequate, and the new president took the bull by the horns to begin the long-delayed expansion Ida had refused to allow. The greenhouses would be torn down to build a west wing where the administration’s daily business would occur, leaving more room for the president’s family in the residence.
Boxes of condolence letters had accumulated, and Caroline took them to her office to identify those from heads of state that required an immediate reply, then packed the others away to be addressed in the coming months. Her concentration was broken by a cascade of childish laughter echoing down the hall. The Roosevelts had yet to move in, but they visited almost every day to begin planning their move and the renovation.
