According to the story, the bodies of Genevieve Gordon and Minnie Gibbs had been disinterred from their graves in Cataumet cemetery early the previous day. State detective Josephus Whitney had superintended the exhumation. The corpses were then carried to a nearby barn, where they were dissected by Dr. Robert H. Faunce, the medical examiner of Sandwich. Also present were Professor Edward Wood of Harvard; the Davises’ physician, Dr. Leonard Latter; and the Reverend Mr. Dicking of the Methodist Church of Cataumet.
Several internal organs, including the stomach, were removed from each cadaver, and these were given over to Professor Wood, who had transported them back to his laboratory in Cambridge. The results of his analysis were not expected to be known for some time.
To be sure, Jane might have taken comfort from certain statements in the article. Though she was identified by name as the nurse who had been “the attendant of each of the patients,” there was no suggestion that she had given them anything other than the best care “that medical skill and professional training could provide.” The article also stressed that, according to initial indications, the autopsies had turned up “nothing to warrant any suspicions as to the deaths having resulted from other than natural causes.”
Still, it must have come as a blow to Jane—who had felt so reassured after her recent talk with Henry Gordon Sr.—to learn that the Cataumet tragedy was under official investigation. And that, as the nurse in whose care the whole Davis family had perished, she herself was now an object of attention by the public, the police, and the press.
As it happened, the developments in Cataumet—which seemed so newsworthy on August 31—were about to vanish entirely from the papers, and Jane would enjoy a temporary respite from her budding notoriety. Within days of the exhumations, the country would be rocked by a killing so momentous that it would make every other crime—even a possible case of multiple murder in New England—seem trivial to the point of utter insignificance.
18
I don’t believe that Christians in this country had any idea of prevailing on God through prayer to work a miracle, even to save our President’s life. Their prayer was that God might give guidance to the surgeons, medical skill to the physicians, and care to the nursing.
—REV. DR. WITHROW, “DID THE DEATH OF THE PRESIDENT PROVE PRAYER USELESS?”
EVEN NOW, A HUNDRED YEARS LATER, THE CITY IS STILL haunted by the tragedy. In September 1901, Buffalo, New York, was in its prime—a proud and wealthy metropolis with booming industries, splendid mansions, and a seemingly limitless future. In the century that followed, it suffered a stunning collapse, sliding from the eighth largest city in the nation to the fifty-ninth, and becoming a gray and dreary symbol of urban blight and Rust Belt decay. Various factors, of course, contributed to its deterioration. But to many of its inhabitants, the decline and fall of Buffalo could be traced to one shattering event—a single terrible moment that cast a permanent pall over their once-shining city and marked the beginning of the end.
It happened at the very place that was intended to ratify Buffalo’s status as one of the nation’s leading cities—the great Pan-American Exposition of 1901. First planned in the heady days following the country’s triumph in its war against Spain, the exposition was designed to be the most spectacular event of its kind in nearly a decade. Like its celebrated predecessor—the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893—the Buffalo exposition was a blend of high-mindedness and low pleasure, part cultural showplace, part carnival midway: a 350-acre tribute to American progress in the realms of science, industry, and the arts, balanced with a healthy dose of crude, Barnumesque fun.
Compared to the Chicago fair—dubbed the “White City” in tribute to its marblelike, neoclassical look—the Buffalo exposition was a baroque fantasyland of riotous color and garish design. The “Rainbow City” some called it. In keeping with its overarching theme—a celebration of our country’s hemispheric bond with its Latin-American neighbors—the prevailing architectural style was something called “Spanish Renaissance.” Red roof tiles were ubiquitous. But many of the pavilions featured a wildly eclectic mix of elements, from Islamic minarets to Corinthian columns, Italian loggias to medieval turrets.
Sculptures were everywhere—adorning the fountains, lining the esplanades, flanking the entrances of the buildings. Some were historical, others allegorical, many purely ornamental. Within the space of six months, a small army of sculptors, working under the supervision of Vienna-trained artist Karl Bitters, churned out more than 500 plaster statues, from demurely draped classical nudes symbolizing the Four Seasons of the Year, to overall-clad laborers representing the Spirit of American Manufacturing.
And then there were the lights: more than two million of them festooning every building in the fair. At the very center of the grounds loomed the great Tower of Electricity, 400 feet high and covered with nearly half-a-million eight-watt bulbs. At night, when the switches were thrown, the exposition was transformed into a glittering “fairy city” that left many observers breathless with wonder.
The level of innovation—industrial, scientific, technological—symbolized by this glorious spectacle was celebrated elsewhere throughout the fair: in the Machinery Building, the Hall of Manufactures, the Railway Exhibit, the Geodetic Survey Display. For countless fairgoers, however, the real highlight was not an edifying tour of the Hall of Ethnology or a glimpse of a hydraulic turbine in action but rather a trip to the Midway. Here, visitors could indulge in hours of Coney Island-style amusement and sideshow titillation. They could ride a camel, enjoy a simulated trip to the moon, or take a hair-raising spin on the Thompson Aerio-Cycle (a gigantic, Erector-set seesaw that suspended its passengers nearly 300 feet aboveground). They could descend into Dreamland, watch a graphic re-creation of the Johnstown Flood, or see premature babies kept alive in the amazing Infant Incubator. And all for the general admission fee of fifty cents.
The festivities on opening day—May 1, 1901—drew a crowd of 20,000. More than five times that number showed up for Dedication Day several weeks later. By the time the exposition ended on Saturday, November 2, it had drawn a total of 8,120,048 people. How many more dreamed of attending is, of course, impossible to say—though we know of at least one person who longed to see the fair but never made it: Oramel Brigham’s sister, Edna Bannister, whose journey to the grand Pan-American Exposition was violently aborted when she stopped off to visit her brother in Lowell, Massachusetts and had the misfortune of being present at his home when Nurse Toppan showed up.
Needless to say, however, it wasn’t the poisoning of an obscure Vermont widow that gave the Buffalo fair its permanent association with tragedy. It was another, infinitely more earthshaking crime that delivered a deathblow not only to the illustrious victim, but to the Exposition itself—and even, some say, to the city of Buffalo.
• • •
President William McKinley held an exalted opinion of world fairs. To him, they were not merely gala events but “the record of the world’s advancement”—“the timekeepers of progress.” He had enjoyed himself mightily at Chicago’s Columbian Exposition in 1893 and Atlanta’s Cotton States Exposition two years later. Now—like so many of his countrymen—he was eager to visit the great Pan-American Exposition.
Originally, he intended to travel to Buffalo in early June. But the sudden illness of his beloved wife, Ida—a chronic invalid who suffered from a range of ailments, including petit mal epilepsy—necessitated a postponement of the trip. The couple passed the summer of 1901 at their modest home in Canton, Ohio, where Ida enjoyed a steady recuperation, while her husband indulged himself in the simple relaxations of the placid Midwestern town—picnics, drives in the family roundabout, excursions to nearby farms and county fairs, evening hymnsings, and an occasional game of euchre. As the summer progressed and Ida continued to improve, his plans to visit Buffalo were renewed. By late August, newspapers around the country were announcing that President’s Day at the Pan-American Exposition had been officially rescheduled f
or Thursday, September 5.
Not everyone was thrilled with the plan. George Cortelyou—McKinley’s fiercely devoted personal secretary—was especially concerned about the proposed public reception, slated for the afternoon of September 6 and certain to draw enormous crowds hoping to shake the President’s hand. Fearful for McKinley’s safety, Cortelyou urged him to reconsider. But McKinley pooh-poohed his worries. “I have no enemies,” he serenely declared. “Why should I fear?”
At fifty-eight years old and six months into his second term, McKinley was, in fact, a widely beloved leader—the country’s most popular President since Lincoln. Even so, Cortelyou’s anxiety was far from unfounded. At a time when Pennsylvania coal miners made less than $400 a year while millionaire industrialists dined from solid gold plates and smoked cigars wrapped in hundred-dollar bills, the country was seething with labor unrest. Only a short time earlier, a Secret Service operative named Moretti had managed to infiltrate an Anarchist cell in New Jersey and uncovered an international plot to kill members of the ruling elite—two of whom, Empress Elizabeth of Austria and King Humbert of Italy, had already been assassinated by the summer of 1901.
Desperate to dissuade McKinley from holding the planned public reception, Cortelyou tried a final tack. At best, he argued, the President would be able to shake hands with only a few of the thousands who would undoubtedly show up to greet him. The rest would go away deeply disappointed.
Once again, however, McKinley brushed aside the objection. “Well,” he said, “they’ll know I tried, anyhow.”
In the end, Cortelyou was forced to bow to his chief’s wishes. Before the special train departed for Buffalo, however, he made sure to fire off a telegram to local officials, warning them that no security precaution was to be spared during the President’s planned two-day trip to their city.
• • •
The President’s three-car Special arrived in Buffalo at precisely 5:00 P.M. on Tuesday, September 3. No sooner had it pulled into the Terrace Railroad Station overlooking Lake Erie than Cortelyou’s worst fears about Anarchist violence appeared to be confirmed. As the locomotive clanked to a halt, the station was rocked by a thunderous explosion. Smoke billowed—the train shook as if torpedoed—passengers were hurled to the floor—glass flew through the cars as windows were blown out by the force of the blast.
Among the crowd of spectators who had turned out to welcome the President confusion reigned. An outraged cry went up: “Anarchists! Anarchists! They’ve wrecked the train!” Spotting a short, swarthy man standing near the tracks, the inflamed crowd advanced on him, convinced he was the culprit. Only the timely intervention of a well-dressed bystander, who had observed the incident from a nearby carriage, saved the fellow from injury—or worse. Leaping from his vehicle, the man interposed himself between the mob and their scapegoat and, raising his hands, shouted: “There’s nothing wrong, gentlemen! This man had nothing to do with the blast! It was caused by the cannons! Dynamite would have blown off the wheels of the car!”
The name of this Samaritan has gone unrecorded by history, but he was, in fact, correct. The incident was the result not of Anarchistic terrorism, but of official incompetence—specifically, of the carelessness of a Coast Guard captain named Leonard Wisser, in charge of providing the President with a twenty-one-gun salute. In his zeal to make this greeting as spectacular as possible, Wisser had laid his artillery dangerously close to the tracks, and it was the detonation of one of the cannons that had rocked the cars carrying McKinley and his retinue.
Eventually, calm was restored. The First Lady—whose nerves were easily unstrung—required the immediate attention of her traveling physician. Otherwise, no serious damage was done, and the incident was quickly forgotten.
Only in hindsight did it assume a sinister aspect—an omen of the disaster to come.
• • •
McKinley was slated to spend two days in Buffalo. Wednesday, September 5—President’s Day at the Exposition—went exactly as planned. At noon, McKinley delivered an eloquent speech to an enthusiastic crowd of more than 50,000 listeners, crammed into the Esplanade under a sweltering sun. Afterward, he spent a full afternoon seeing the grounds, touring the buildings and exhibits, attending receptions, and greeting assorted dignitaries and well-wishers. In the evening—after a brief rest at the mansion of his host—he and Ida returned to the Exposition to enjoy a concert by John Philip Sousa and watch a dazzling display of fireworks, whose highlights included a line of twenty-two pyrotechnic battleships, a fiery representation of Niagara Falls, and a blazing portrait of McKinley himself, accompanied by the legend: “Welcome President McKinley, Chief of Our Nation and Our Empire.”
Thursday was scheduled to be McKinley’s “restful day.” It began with a morning of sightseeing. Accompanied by Ida and a party of distinguished guests, he traveled on a special train of parlor cars to Niagara Falls, where he walked along the gorge, hiked halfway across the suspension bridge, toured the powerhouse (“the marvel of the Electrical Age,” as he proclaimed it), and enjoyed a hearty lunch in the ballroom of the International Hotel. After capping off the meal with a cigar on the veranda, he reboarded the train with his wife and entourage and returned to Buffalo for his final appearance at the Exposition—the public reception that George Cortelyou had tried so hard to talk him out of.
• • •
The Temple of Music—whose pseudo-Byzantine design and garish color scheme had drawn the sneers of critics, even while delighting countless fairgoers—had been chosen as the site of the reception. From the moment the fairgrounds opened that morning, thousands of spectators had swarmed to the building, many standing on line for hours beneath a blazing sun. Finally, at precisely 4:00 P.M., the door was thrown open and the crowd began to make an orderly, single-file procession down the aisle toward the dais, where McKinley waited to shake their hands.
In accordance with Cortelyou’s instructions, extra precautions had been taken to ensure the President’s safety. In addition to the three Secret Service men who routinely watched over him, a squad of Exposition policemen had been stationed at the entrance and a contingent of Buffalo detectives posted in the aisle. Ten enlisted artillerymen and a corporal, all in full-dress uniform, had also been called in, with orders to prevent any suspicious-looking persons from approaching McKinley. Altogether, more than eighty guards were there to keep an eye on the crowd.
In spite of these heightened security measures, however, one cardinal rule for protecting the President was flagrantly disregarded. No visitor was supposed to get close to the Chief Executive unless both hands were plainly visible and completely empty. In those pre-air-conditioned days, however, the crammed reception hall was sweltering—at least ninety degrees. Sweat poured from every brow, and so many handkerchiefs were in evidence that the guards simply paid no attention to them.
At least, that was the only explanation ever given for what happened next. At 4:07 P.M.—just a few minutes after the reception began—a short, slender, mild-looking young man reached the front of the line. Like so many other other people, he was clutching a big white handkerchief. Or so it appeared. In reality, the hankie was wrapped around his right hand, concealing a short-barreled .32-caliber revolver. As McKinley reached out to greet him, the young man—a self-professed Anarchist named Leon Czolgosz—lurched forward and fired twice into the President’s body.
A moment of stunned silence followed the shots. Then pandemonium erupted. While the President staggered back a few steps, Czolgosz was knocked to the floor by a bystander, then pounced on by the soldiers and guards, who began to beat him with rifle butts and billy clubs. “Go easy on him boys,” gasped McKinley, now seated in a chair, his face drained of color, a spreading red stain on his shirt-front.
While Czolgosz was hauled to his feet and dragged to an inner office, the Temple was cleared. A few minutes later, an ambulance clanged up to the entrance and the desperately wounded President was carried out on a litter, loaded into the vehicle, and driven to t
he Exposition hospital.
• • •
Anyone looking into the history of the Toppan affair is bound to be struck by the shockingly primitive state of American medicine a century ago—a time when a dose of formaldehyde was the officially recommended treatment for the common cold, when drugstore shelves were stocked with “reinvigorating tonics” consisting largely of alcohol and opium, and when an entire middle-class family could be annihilated in the span of a few weeks under the very nose of their unsuspecting family physician. No one, no matter how eminent or powerful, was immune from the rampant medical incompetence of the age—as the case of the unfortunate William McKinley was about to prove.
Housed in a small, gray building a quarter-mile from the Temple of Music, the Exposition hospital was little more than an emergency first-aid station. Exactly eighteen minutes after the shooting, McKinley—fully conscious, though in severe shock—was carried into the rudimentary operating room and lain on the table.
As the nurses began to undress him, one of the bullets—which had glanced off his breastbone, causing only a scratch—fell from his underclothing. Even at a glance, however, it was clear that the other wound was far more serious, perhaps even fatal. It had torn through McKinley’s abdomen, approximately five inches below his left nipple.
The first and most urgent order of business was to round up the best physicians available. Dr. Roswell Park—the Exposition’s eminent medical director and a man with long experience in the treatment of gunshot wounds—was the obvious choice to take charge. But Park was in Niagara Falls, operating on a lymphoma patient. Arrangements were quickly made to rush him back to Buffalo at the earliest possible moment. In the meantime, the President’s life was put into the hands of another prominent Buffalo physician, Dr. Matthew Mann.
A short, gray-bearded fifty-six-year-old, Mann had a worldwide reputation. He had trained in the United States and Europe, served on the staff of the Yale Medical School, and authored a standard textbook. His specialty, however, wasn’t abdominal surgery. It was gynecology. Nevertheless, he was deemed the most qualified surgeon available at that moment of extreme crisis.
Fatal Page 14
