"They
will never surrender until their whole race is exterminated. They are fighting
for a good cause, and the Americans should be the last of all nations to
transgress upon such rights. Their independence is dearer to them than life, as
ours was in years gone by, and is today."
Ellis G. Davis, Company A, 20th Kansas
“The
government’s game is to grab a weak little people’s country and give it our
liberties for theirs, without their asking.”
Mark Twain, Vice-President,
Anti-Imperialist League
The Pan-American Exposition, called the rainbow city by those who had walked its
cobblestone streets, drinking in the rich hues of the buildings, painted red,
green, blue, and gold, and bathed in the glow of the 240,000 lights which lined
the streets and buildings of the grounds, was held a mire thirty minute ride
from downtown Buffalo. The
streets were filled with people from across the country, their eyes drawn
irresistibly to the ornate Spanish renaissance style buildings, fountains, and
statues which lined the T shaped walk of the exposition.
With so much to draw the eye and capture the imagination, it was not
surprising that the President’s black carriage drew little attention as it
maneuvered its way to the Temple of Music.
As President McKinley, accompanied by Milburn, president of the
exposition, rode down the tree lined boardwalk, his eyes, like so many before
him, were inevitably drawn to the light studded structure stretching toward the
heavens. The Electric Tower,
the crowning masterpiece of the exposition painted a deep rich shade of green,
accented with white, blue and gold, rose from the grounds to a grand height of
375 feet. At night, its
44,000 lights made the tower visible from as far as Niagara Falls.
During the day, the steel framed tower, bordered on one side by a massive
fountain and reflecting pool, would remind European visitors of influences of
St. Steven’s Tower in London and the newly built Eiffel Tower in Paris.
As the carriage drew to a stop near
the side entrance to the dome capped Temple of Music, McKinley stepped to the
ground.
“This, Mr. President, is the
Temple of Music,” Milburn stated, beaming with pride.
“Very impressive,”
McKinley replied, his eyes drawn along the light yellow walls, accented with
gold and red trimming, to the dome, its panels painted a contrasting light blue
hue.
“It seats 2200, and, as you will
see, contains the largest organ ever constructed in the United States.
You are in for a rare treat, Mr. Gomph will be performing during your
reception.”
“Splendid, I look forward to
hearing him play…Shall we go in?”
“Right this way sir,” Milburn,
said, pulling wide the side door to the auditorium.
As McKinley stepped through, he was greeted with the sight of a packed
house of enthusiastic supporters. A
cheer rose from the waiting crowd.
President McKinley took his
position along the stage, flanked by President Milburn and his secretary
Cortelyou. Adjacent to the
chosen spot, stood Secret Service officers Ireland and Foster, and the
exposition security team.
Cortelyou looked nervously at
the crowd. “I’m sorry Mr.
President, I did not expect such a turn out.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Cortelyou,”
McKinley said, adjusting the lay of his frock coat over his ample girth.
“I’ve been looking forward to this…besides it is such a wonderful
day.” President McKinley
turned to face the line of people, the end of which could not be seen down the
long corridor. “Mr. Milburn
if you please.” With a nod,
the crowd surged forward.
The massive crowd chattered loudly,
excited at the prospect of meeting the President of the United States, the roar
occasionally drowned by the strains of Bach emitting from the grand pipe organ,
the centerpiece of the Temple of Music.
The president smiled, accepting each hand thrust at him and returning a
hearty handshake, for it was due to these people gathered in this hall that he
would be spending another four years in office. Why not be happy?
He had much to be over joyed about besides winning his reelection bid.
General MacArthur was reporting that the natives in the Philippines were
finally being brought under control and hostilities there were near an end.
Best of all, the insurgent leader Emilio Aguinaldo had been captured and
had taken the oath of allegiance. He
had nearly collapsed with laughter upon hearing the rumor that Aguinaldo was to
be brought to the Pan-American Exposition and placed upon display in the
Philippine village exhibition, like some kind of circus side show attraction.
The line of people, positioned in a
single file row passing through the observing eyes of soldiers from the
seventy-third Sea Coast Artillery and members of the grounds police, stretched
endlessly from where he stood near the stage of the lavish auditorium.
McKinley’s eyes wandered along this line, excited at meeting each even
if it took all day. Why not? It
had been a long time since he had felt this good.
McKinley’s
gaze feel to rest upon a peculiar gentlemen nearing the front of the line, his
right hand wrapped tightly in a white handkerchief, held firmly against his
chest. Perhaps the gentlemen
had suffered an injury or had a disfigured hand, which he was ashamed to show?
He would have to make an effort not to notice the man’s impediment.
It would be rude to draw attention to the problem.
Still it did look odd.
President
McKinley extended his hand, the gentlemen, eyes averted, extended his left in
response. As McKinley grasped
it firmly, he felt a wicked blow to the chest, followed by a second blow to the
stomach. Staggering, he felt the
world tilting wildly out of kilter, his legs suddenly overwhelmingly weak. He feel back, his fall cut short by the gentle hands of
one of the security guards, the pain in his chest worse than any he had ever
felt before.
The
gunman took aim for a third shot, but never got the chance, his tiny frame
swallowed by the large black gentlemen directly behind in line.
Instantly, the secret service and police set upon him.
Tackling him to the ground.
“Am
I shot?” he pleaded, looking helplessly up into the unfamiliar face of the
guard. Two deep red spots began to blossom on his white shirt,
the pain unbearable. The
guard carefully unbuttoned his white waistcoat and shirt.
“I am afraid that you are, Mr. President.”
McKinley
raised his head, gazing at the mob that had converged around the gunmen.
Wrestling the wrapped gun from his hand, they started to brutally beat
him. Anger and shock at this
maddening act of violence was transformed into the violent acts of those wanting
him to pay for his cowardly act. President
McKinley weakly raised his voice.
“Don’t
let them hurt him.”
“Let
the coward get what he deserves,” the guard replied.
The
President’s weakened voice cut through the chaos, “Go easy on him boys.”
“Mr.
Cortelyou…” McKinley called softly, reaching a blooded hand to grasp his
secretary and draw him closer. “My
wife…be careful, Cortelyou, how you tell her.”
Turning his head toward the man that would eventually take his life,
McKinley said, “Let no one hurt him.”
He
would die of gangrene eight days later, a young Teddy Rooseve