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then he breathed deeply from nervous agitation, but he did not speak.
Outside the building couid be seen the tumultuous throng of people. From all parts of the grounds they had come to the common center. Now and then some man's voice would call out: “Don't let him get away," and there would be a score of answering shouts of “Kill him!" "Hang him!” “Get a rope !” “Take him up on the arch and burni him!”
An automobile mail wagon, only the top of which was visible above the crowd, appeared between the Temple and the Government Building: The angry crowd thought it was coming for the prisoner.
"Guard the doors and stop that wagon!” a man shouted. The wagon was stopped, but proceeded by a circuitous route a few moments later.
Around the main door was a squad of policemen. Then a detachment of marines arrived, under command of Captain Leonard. They formed in line. Then in a loud, clear tone which penetrated far into the crowd, came the order: “Load rifles!”
The breeches clicked and the men held up to plain view the hard steel and the encasing brass as they filled their rifles with cartridges.
The moral effect was obvious, for the women started a movement to draw back and the great impulse of vengeance seemed broken. Men and women who had been dry-eyed began to cry.
The lips of the marines were twitching, but the heads on the broad shoulders were motionless, as the breath was held firm and steady. So men look when facing a mighty duty with a mighty heart.
The little room where the prisoner was held contained a quantity of rope, which was used for shutting off the esplanade at time of drill and special festivities. "Rope off the south approaches to the building so we can get the wagon in here,” said Colonel Byrne.
“You will never get that wagon forty feet with him in it,” said Detective Ireland. “We must have a carriage and horses. The people can stop an automobile better than they can horses."
Some distance away was the carriage in which part of the cominittee had come to the Temple of Music. On the box was a little coachman. As he received his orders and was told that his carriage was to take the prisoner away, he smiled. “All right,” he said.
“Gentlemen,” said the leader inside, “every moment of this delay is making matters worse. The crowd is getting more and more worked up and it is getting bigger. It reaches way out over the esplanade now. Give this man to me and I give you my word I will get him to Buffalo. Here are two Buffalo officers who will go with me.”
"The best plan is to jump him right into this carriage and get him
right out of here,” said Detective Ireland. The military guards were · immediately informed of the plans.
The roped off space was sufficient to admit the carriage, and the commander of the exposition police gave the signal. A guard led the way, there was a guard on each side of the prisoner and two followed him. The coachman whipped up his horses and dashed to the door.' The marines and artillerymen dropped their guns until the bayonets were at charge. As the carriage drew up a policeman swung open its door. At the same time, the door of the little room opened, and out came the prisoner, with his guards.
He was literally hurled into the carriage by the policemen. The crowd surged to the door, yelling: “Here he comes!” “This door!” "This door!” The lines of soldiers swayed, but did not break.
“There he is! There he is! Kill him! Kill him !" came from a thousand throats. "Don't let that carriage get away, you cowards!” “Kill him!” “Kill him!” “Kill the bloody anarchist!”
It was a bedlam of curses and yells from people fighting to get closer, waving their fists, with here and there a revolver gleaming in the sun. The roar of the mob was a thing never to be forgotten. It had the deadly, intense growl, the wild, blood-thirsty shriek and the raucous, savage note, that is not heard once in a generation.
As the carriage moved away, a policeman swung himself to the seat beside the coachman. As the wheels moved beyond the rope, men, and even women, sprang forward, caught at the wheels and clutched at the horses' harness. The driver had a whip with a long lash which he played alternately upon the horses and the faces of the crowd.
Once, as the carriage neared the Triumphal Causeway, the crush became too dense to pass through. Strong limbed, angry men were in pursuit behind and it looked as if the carriage was to be stopped in front. The coachman smiled and, standing up, sped his long lash out over the horses' heads. They increased their speed to a gallop, and the crowd parted.
Once on the causeway all was well, for the outer limits of the crowd had been reached, and the narrowness of the way beyond, as well as the downward slope of the road, facilitated movement. The crowd gave up its pursuit and the carriage speedily went to the Lincoln Park gateway, which swung open as it drew near. From this point straight down Delaware avenue, the journey was little interrupted
The prisoner, from the moment he had touched the cushions of the carriage had cowered in the corner, now and then raising his head as he looked out of the windows. When he heard the awful imprecations as the mob struggled to get near enough to take vengeance con
vulsive shivers ran through his slender body and his eyes rolled wide with terror. His lips were dry and parched and he moistened them constantly with his tongue.
As the carriage passed the Milburn residence, the guard who was nearest him looked up at the front of the house in which Mrs. McKinley lay asleep, and, clutching his club closer in his hand, turned upon the prisoner a look which made him cower deeper in the cushions
Just south of Utica street, the carriage met a light police wagon, in which was Superintendent Bull, who turned and followed the carriage down to headquarters at Station No. 1. There the carriage drew up sharply and the prisoner was taken in, while a score of idlers, always about, looked on with bare interest.
A moment later bicyclists who were following told them the President had been shot and the man who had done it was the prisoner who had just been taken in.
The news spread rapidly. When bulletins began to appear on the boards along newspaper row and when the announcement was made that the prisoner had been taken to police headquarters only two blocks distant from the newspaper section, the crowd surged down toward the Terrace, eager for a glimpse of the prisoner.
At police lieadquarters they were met by a strong cordon of police, which was drawn across the pavement on Pearl street, and admittance was denied to any but officials authorized to take part in the examination of the prisoner. In a few minutes the crowd had grown from tens to hundreds, and these in turn quickly swelled to thousands, until the street was completely blocked with a mass of humanity.
Some one raised the cry of “Lynch him!” Like a flash the cry was echoed and re-echoed by the crowd, until it became an imperious demand. The thousands surged forward.
The situation was becoming critical. Suddenly the doors were flung open and a squad of reserves advanced with solid front to the other side of the street. Gradually they were dispersed, but not before the entire street in front of police headquarters had been roped off.
Inside the station house, the authorities were questioning the assassin. He first gave his name as Fred Nieman, said his home was in Detroit and that he had been in Buffalo about a week. He said he had been boarding at a place in Broadway. Later, this place was located as John Nowak's saloon, a Raines law hotel, at 1078 Broadway. Here the prisoner had occupied a room for about a week.
John Nowak, the proprietor, said he knew very little about the man. He had been alone at all times and had had no visitors. In his room was found a small traveling bag of cheap make, which contained only an empty cartridge box and a few clothes.
When he was first arrested, he answered a query as to his motive, by saying: “I am an anarchist, and I did my duty.” At headquarters he denied that he was an anarchist, but would give no other reason for his deed. He persistently refused to answer questions. With lips tightly closed and with eyes upon the floor, he sat stolidly listening to the torrent of questions poured upon him, and answered none of them after making the first brief statements about his name and residence. Later, he confessed that his name was Leon Czolgosz and that he was a disciple of Emma Goldman, the anarchist.
Still later, he signed a confession which stated that he had no confederate, that he decided three days ago to commit the crime, and that lie liad bought the revolver in Buffalo. He did not appear in the least degree uneasy or penitent for his action, nor did he show any signs of insanity.
In the meantime, the president was in the hospital. Probably it was not more than five minutes from the time the shots were fired until the examination by the surgeons had begun. They discovered that one bullet had entered the breast, striking the bone, then glanced aside, and the other had struck the abdomen five inches below the left nipple and one and a half inches to the left of the median line. The stomach lying directly under that spot, the gravest fears were entertained regarding the consequences of that wound.
Dr. Roswell Park, an eminent surgeon, was immediately sent for. About six o'clock he arrived at the hospital and with the assistance of Dr. Mynter and several other surgeons, began a search for the ball. It was found that the bullet had passed completely through the stomach, piercing both walls, and had lodged somewhere in the back, but it could not be found.
The surgeons abandoned the search for the bullet and closed the apertures in the stomach with several stitches both in front and back. The President was under an anaesthetic during the operation and within an hour after it was over, he recovered from the effects of the opiate. It was announced that he was resting easily and had a good chance for recovery. The principal danger, it was said, lay in the development of peritonitis.
As soon as the surgeons made the announcement that the President was in no immediate danger, President Milburn made arrangements to have the patient removed to his house on Delaware avenue. The chief of police immediately ordered the streets roped off, over which the ambulance would pass, and stationed guards to prevent all other traffic.
An automobile ambulance was brought to the emergency hospital and with the utmost care the President was removed to Mr. Milburn's