Black Drop

by S. L. Stoner

  The mercenary’s step on the cobbled sidewalk quickened. He was meeting with Destiny, this drizzling, miserable May morning and he could not be late.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Dispatch: May 21, 1903, President’s train enters Portland, Oregon

  “It is essential that there should be organization of labor. This is an era of organization. Capital organizes and therefore labor must organize.” —T.R.

  Sage limped toward Mozart’s, hampered by a painful “hitch in his git-along” as his mother would say. The warehouse’s flimsy looking tin door had been stronger than it looked. He tried to relax his face because he could feel it scrunch into lines of worry. The two men in the warehouse hadn’t told them much of anything. Not that the scoundrels seemed to hold back anything. A few punches into one of their guts and they spilled everything they knew. Turned out, they were just two drifters, hired to guard a man and forget everything they saw. Neither would admit what their instructions had been with regard to the union leader once the “stranger” had left. But the snick of their eyes to one side when questioned about their plans for Meachum confirmed Sage’s suspicions. Murder was the intended outcome. As for the stranger who’d beaten Meachum–they said that he’d pulled his hat brim low and made them stay at the far end of the warehouse whenever he’d questioned Meachum. Sure, they’d heard the blows and Meachum’s cries but not what the stranger had said to Meachum since he’d pitched his voice too low for them to hear.

  The two captives remained behind, guarded by Meachum’s men. Once the president had left the city and things settled down, he’d deliver them to Hanke. Sage spent the next six hours dozing fitfully in Solomon’s plush parlor chair, just steps away from the unconscious Meachum. The healing hands of Solomon’s friend, Miz Esther, had ministered to the injured man throughout the pre-dawn hours but he never regained consciousness.

  Finally, Sage could no longer remain by the injured man’s side. He had to get back to Mozart’s so he could change his clothes and join the president’s Republican welcoming committee at the train station. The street he walked along was not on the president’s parade route but still, parade goers were everywhere, streaming westward, eager to find a viewpoint from which to watch their country’s leader pass. Overhead, the sky was the mild blue of May, fleecy white clouds scooting before a stiff breeze aloft. He hoped that breeze would not catch up any rain clouds. But this was the Pacific Northwest and its spring weather was so erratic it defied accurate prediction.

  Fortunately, the street in front of Mozart’s was much more thinly populated. He was glad of that. He reached the alley trapdoor without being observed and had soon found his way to the bathtub on the third floor. When he entered his room, Sage saw a folded note sitting against a vase of early hydrangeas. His mother’s handwriting had scrawled Sage’s name across its front. Sage snatched up the note to read her terse message, “Matthew, Herman, and I all safe. So are BCS boys. Thanks to McAllister and friends. Know something about assassination. Definite platform is location. Meet you there!”

  Suddenly Sage understood what it meant to feel weak in the knees, because his legs gave out and he had to fumble for the chair. Sitting, he read the note again, noticing that unshed tears of relief were blurring the words. She was safe. Herman and Matthew were safe. Fong was conscious and had his “marbles.” Only Meachum’s outcome remained unknown. “To hell with the president. Today is already a success,” Sage exulted.

  He mentally shook loose of that celebratory excess. This was no time for exuberance. Not today. And, Roosevelt’s life did matter. Not just because he was more progressive than most politicians but, also, because the plotters intended for his assassination to deliver a death blow to the union movement.

  Within an hour Sage was thoroughly cleaned, groomed and dressed in his most formal suit–specifically, a “hand-tailored, jet-black, German-worsted, double-breasted, Prince Albert suit, complete with silk-lined vest.” The haberdasher had almost sung the suit’s attributes while making his sale. A tall silk hat and black wool overcoat completed his meet-the-president ensemble. A bit of blackening to polish up the shoes, a nod to the gnome-like Horace who was still ably maintaining Mozart’s operation and Sage headed back onto the streets.

  This time he mingled with the crowds walking the parade route. For a moment all his concerns were pushed aside as he got caught up in the excitement that had seized hold of the city. Authoritative adults were herding chattering clusters of school children, dressed in their Sunday best, toward the park blocks on the west side of downtown. One of the key events planned for the president was a meeting with the children of the city. When Sage reached the Portland Hotel, he saw that a mass of color had transformed its east courtyard. They’d arranged the flags of many nations in large clay pots. Multitudes of red, white and blue American flags and bunting hung from every window, with an enormous, slightly tattered old glory spanning the area above the entry door. This was a special flag, having been the one first raised inside the city of Manila after its surrender in 1898. It was here, at the Portland Hotel, where the president would dine, once the time capsule ceremony at the monument site was over. “If he’s still alive,” Sage cautioned himself.

  Lengthening his stride, Sage headed north toward Union Station. Throngs of people filed the space between building fronts and curbs on either side. Sage was forced to walk in the street. Overhead, bunting and flags fluttered from lampposts and from wires strung across the street. Intrepid young men, high up the power poles, perched with one leg wrapped around the pole arms, just like sailors in ships’ rigging. The buildings along the route sported bunting, flags and flowers. People crowded every window from the second story up, shouting and waving to those who stood below.

  The street in front of the railroad station was even more crowded than the sidewalks along the parade route. Uniformed soldiers, tootling bands, prancing horses hooked to open carriages and scores of police officers made walking a challenge. Eventually, Sage spotted the well-dressed welcoming committee gathered to one side of the station doors. Just as he reached them, a distant roar sounded in the east. Sage knew that masses of men, women and children stood vigil on the bridges crossing the river, hoping to catch an early glimpse of the president’s arrival. Their faraway cheers were the first indication that the presidential train was approaching the city proper and right on time. Next came the boom of the twenty-one-gun salute from cannons arranged on the bluff top across the river. This signal meant that Roosevelt’s train was on the bridge and crossing the Willamette’s waters. A hoarse cacophony of lumber mill whistles, shrill riverboat wails and exultant toots of steam locomotives parked in the nearby rail yard joined the din.

  Near the train tracks, a battery of cannons began to roar, spurting fire and huge puffs of smoke as they recoiled backwards. Nimble soldiers deftly reloaded and fired them again and again in perfect unison until the air around the station turned milky white from the drifting smoke. All around the station the crowds began cheering as the president’s steam locomotive rounded the final curve and began to decelerate as it pulled into the station. At its windows, passengers peered out at the scene. The crowd pressed forward, the din increased. By then, the welcoming committee was passing through the station’s ornate wooden doors heading toward the platform.

  Sage stepped back. He was not part of those select few designated to actually mount the train steps to greet the president. They numbered only three, Senator Mitchell, Mayor Williams and, of course, as chair of the planning committee, banker Abbott Mills.

  Searching the crowd for Sergeant Hanke, Sage finally spotted the big policeman near the archway out of which the presidential carriage would advance. Sage sidled up next to the tall policeman, who acknowledged him with a nod even as his eyes continued to scan the crowd for trouble.

  “We found out where they’re going to try for certain,” Sage said, just loud enough for his words to carry to the sergeant’s ears without anyone overhearing. Hanke’s eyes ceased scanning a
nd he looked directly at Sage. “Where?” he demanded.

  “Just as we figured. City Park, during the time capsule dedication. When the president’s on the platform.”

  Hanke’s attention was fully riveted on Sage, such that he was totally ignoring the din and activity boiling around the two men. “Who? What do they look like, man?”

  “Well, that’s still a problem at present,” Sage said. “But, I think Mrs. Clemens will be there at the platform to identify one of them. The other, the one tossing the bomb, I don’t know. We never found him. No one has seen him. Except maybe Meachum.”

  “Jesus Christ, man, ask Meachum what he looks like!” Hanke’s voice was tight with checked panic. They both knew that a thrown bomb could travel far. In the crush of the crowd that was sure to be surrounding the platform, a bomber could stand anywhere.

  “Can’t. He’s beat up bad. Unconscious . . . ” Sage started to explain when interrupted by a sudden commotion at the station’s side. A U.S. artillery captain gave a sharp command and eighty mounted soldiers lined up, facing each other, forty to a side. The crowd stilled and in that silence, the captain issued a second sharp command. In response, the soldiers whipped out their sabers and angled them to form an open arch. Brazen bugles blared the President’s March, heard for the first time in the city’s history. Slowly, the president’s carriage rolled forward between the raised sabers. Sunlight struck Roosevelt’s ruddy face, glinting off his wire-rimmed spectacles and catching on big white teeth beneath his bushy mustache. The president was grinning widely as he raised an arm and waved vigorously.

  As the crowd roared, Hanke jumped into action, raising his own arm to signal his men to take their places. He cast a final look at Sage who mouthed, “See you up there,” as he gestured in the direction of City Park. The sergeant nodded and then waded off through the crowd.

  The president’s open black carriage was elegant but unadorned, except for a single thin gold stripe. The papers had reported that he’d ordered that neither flowers nor bunting festoon the carriage or its horses. Riding with the president was the mayor, Governor Chamberlain and the president’s secretary, William Loeb. As it passed the soldiers, they sheathed their sabers, mounted their horses and began moving alongside the carriage in two columns. Spanish–American war veterans next took up their honored places, forming two additional columns to the inside, on either side of the carriage. They raised their battle flags in the air and their feet kept time to the small band that marched before the carriage. Sage spotted solitary, stoic-faced men standing on the streets, atop buildings and perched in overhead windows, their wary eyes watching the crowds. Hanke had been right. The parade route, with its layers of participants and protectors, made it too hard for an assassin to get close enough to throw a bomb accurately.

  Leading the parade was Police Chief Hunt, striding at the head of a tight formation of city policemen. Hanke was one of their number. Behind them came the parade’s grand marshal, General Beebe, who raised a staff into the air and stepped out. The procession began to move forward. Eight carriages trailed the president’s, all containing dignitaries and a select few of the city’s notables. Following them came a series of musical bands– including those representing the Italians, Letter Carriers Union and even a band of American-born Chinese. Uniformed aides raced back and forth along at each side, undoubtedly for the purpose of carrying the messages necessary to keep the procession orderly. For a brief moment, Sage allowed himself to experience a swelling of pride at the good show being put on by his adopted city.

  Sage watched until the last band passed and then he slipped through the crowd, seeking a less crowded street away from the parade. He intended to reach the platform long before the parade did. And that would be awhile, maybe an hour-and-half to two hours. The delay was inevitable. Along the route there would be more bands waiting to perform for the president. At different locations, various organizations and their members would be waiting, all wanting to be acknowledged by the head of state. The presidential pause in the park blocks to speak with the city’s children would also be slowed by the scores of people who waited there to join in the parade, including a large contingent marching as a “human flag.”

  Although Abbott had promised Sage a seat on that platform, the enormous turnout of notables threatened that plan. The best way to guarantee that Sage would be close enough to

  the president to save him, was for Sage to stake out his position on the platform well in advance.

  Overhead, the sun began flirting with the plump gray clouds even as a stiffening breeze began to push more clouds in from the west. Not a good sign. Sage buttoned his top button, raised his coat collar and lengthened his stride.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Dispatch: May 21, 1903, 3:30 p.m., President speechifying in Portland, Oregon.

  “My fellow citizens, I think I shall not refer, while in the western portion of Oregon, to the subject of irrigation. The proprieties of the situation would seem to call for remarks by the Secretary of the Navy.” —T.R.

  Pedestrian traffic crowded the sidewalks near City Park. Apparently, Sage wasn’t the only person intent on arriving early to stake out a good spot from which to view the ceremony.

  The long, steep street into the park split into a “T” just below the flat terrace where the platform stood. The platform was where an obelisk, dedicated to the Lewis and Clark Expedition, would eventually stand. Sage considered what he’d learned about the event from reading the newspapers. He knew that it was from this platform that Theodore Roosevelt would deliver his major speech of the day. The president would also place into a hole in the platform, a copper box containing Oregon memorabilia. Finally, he would use an ivory-handled, engraved silver trowel to smooth the cement around the stone covering the box and thus conclude the ceremony.

  The city’s monied elite intended for today’s event and the obelisk to kick off their scheme to promote a 1905 Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition. The purpose of that extravaganza was to attract new residents to Portland, thereby lining the pockets of those who had the financial means o exploit those new residents–the exposition’s promoters. All over the country, other expositions were being launched with the same intent–additional wealth for the already wealthy. Sage wondered whether any of them would ever have enough. Probably not. Greed was one ravenous beast.

  Joining the crowd hurrying up the steep Washington Street toward the platform, Sage thought about how none of them knew of the dire threat hanging over today’s festivities. Yet, somewhere, in this press of people, other people were intent on putting the president’s life in grave danger.

  Sage’s heartbeat quickened at that thought and he stepped up his pace. He had to get on that platform. Already, the street was closed to all horses and people filed the sidewalks on both sides of the street. He saw a smattering of Chinese men but not Mr. Li. He searched the crowd for the sight of his mother or McAllister or Meachum’s men but there were already too many people.

  When he reached the platform, a tall policeman in a shiny button, double-breasted coat and beehive helmet blocked his access. Sage pulled out Abbot’s engraved invitation. The policeman studied it before saying, “This looks fine sir. But, they’ve issued way too many invitations. We don’t think the platform is big enough to hold everyone invited and the president’s party too.”

  A moment of extreme panic swept through him. It must have showed in his eyes because the policeman’s face softened. “Well, seeing’s how you are just one man and you came early, I’ll let you on. But stay inside the ropes,” he gestured to the three rope fence strung along each side of the platform, “Don’t leave, sir. If you do, they won’t let you back on.”

  “Thank you!” Sage said and squeezed past the man who quickly stepped forward to block anyone else’s access to

  platform. Sage noticed that, on each side, a line of white-gloved

  policemen buttressed the rope barrier that encircled the structure’s base.

  The platform wa
s just a simple concrete foundation. Later, they would clad it with granite slabs upon which they would install the actual obelisk. Sage quickly found a place to stand near the hole where the copper box would be placed. Sitting on blocks, next to the hole, was the platform’s central granite slab that would be lowered atop it and cemented in. The city spread out below them. In the far distance, the craggy, solitary Mt. Hood stood bathed in sunlight. But, to the northwest, a cloud’s dark underbelly was roiling eastward. It was high and thick enough to eventually hide the mountain.

  With nothing left to do but watch and wait, Sage surveyed the scene. There was little room to move on the platform. Men and women in their best clothes occupied all available chairs while those of lesser social importance stood elbow to elbow. Across the platform stood the Republican planning committee: Fenton, Abbott, Dolph, Holman and Doctor Harvey were all there. He nodded to them but did not cross to speak. He didn’t want to lose his spot because it was closer to the speaker’s podium. He saw that only wives accompanied Abbott, Holman and Fenton. Dolph had his daughter in tow while a well-dressed man, who stood apart from the group, seemed to be accompanying Dr. Harvey. Clearly this was a stranger. Sage narrowed his eyes at the thought. A stranger? But Harvey couldn’t be the one. He had no connection to any of the Trusts.