The Anarchist (29 page)

“You don’t seem too worried about any of this, Czolgosz.”

“Not particularly. What’s done is done. Can’t do nothing about it now.”

“No, I guess you can’t.”

ANTON was waiting for Hyde in an alley off Trenton Avenue, and they began walking toward the canal. “Listen to me,” Hyde said. “I don’t know if that was Czolgosz in that carriage—I couldn’t tell for certain. But I do know the other man. He’s a Pinkerton, and he knows me.”

“A Pinkerton?”

“Yes, and we have to be careful. Don’t do anything. Just go along with Gimmel and Bruener. I first want to know who they’ve got.”

The rain started again, dimpling the puddles in the streets. They turned up their coat collars, tucked their hands in their pockets, and set a steady pace. By the time they reached the canal,
fog hovered over the water. They found the
Glockenspiel
nestled in a small canal that ran between brick warehouses. Josef was standing watch on deck. Hyde and Anton went below and found Gimmel and Bruener seated at the cabin table, sharing a bottle of whiskey—neither appeared to be celebrating.

There was no sign of their hostages.

Gimmel stared at Hyde and said, “Why’d you pick the second carriage?”

“Czolgosz wasn’t in the first one. The second, it was hard to tell.”

Gimmel looked away in disgust, nodding toward the door to the forward compartments. Hyde opened the door and went through the hold, past the animal stalls, until he came to another door; inside was a dim, narrow space in the bow. Two men lay in bunks, both with their hands bound and tied to the iron rings hanging from the bulkhead. Their heads were covered with gunnysacks, but he knew them: the heavier man was Norris, and the other was the man who had tailed Hyde.

Hyde closed the door and went back to the cabin. “That’s not Czolgosz,” he said.

“We figured
that
out,” Gimmel said. He took two wallets from inside his coat and laid them on the table. “Jake Norris and Jack Feeney. Pinkertons.”

“They’re worthless,” Bruener said. “We should have shot them right away.”

“It’s Hyde who’s worthless,” Gimmel said. “You were supposed to know what Czolgosz looked like.”

“I do,” Hyde said, “and I didn’t see him in either carriage.”

Bruener picked up his whiskey glass. “We should just dump them in the canal.”

“Let them go,” Hyde said. “Take them somewhere and release them. They return safely, the police might not bother looking for us. Keep them and they won’t quit looking.”

“Even though these two have their heads covered,” Bruener said, “they know they’re on water. We let them go they’ll bring
the whole fucking police force down to the waterfront. I’m telling you it would be much simpler to kill them. Don’t even have to shoot them—just tie stones to them, take them down to the harbor, and push them overboard in deep water. No one will ever find them.”

“No, these are Pinkertons, hirelings of the capitalists,” Gimmel said as he ran his fingers over the scars on the side of his face; it was as though he’d just discovered them. “I’m not giving Pinker-tons back so they can bust the heads of workers some other day.” He put the wallets back inside his coat. “Besides, this Norris, he said something interesting to me in the carriage. He said we have already failed.”

NORRIS was lying in a bunk, a coarse sack over his head and tied around his neck. His wrists were bound by rope to something above him—an iron ring—so that he could only lie awkwardly on his right side.

“You pissed your pants,” he whispered into the heat of the sack.

“I couldn’t help it,” Feeney said. “We’re on a boat. You can feel it. They keep moving. Then they tie up, and then move again. You hear the horses and mules—we must be on the canal.”

“Good, Feeney. Maybe you have a brain after all.”

“There are barges everywhere on the canal. We could be headed to Albany. But I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“The locks. There are five locks in Lockport. We’d know if we went through them.”

“So we’re still in Buffalo.”

“I think so,” Feeney said. “But there’s a lot of waterway in
Buffalo. We might never be found on a barge, particularly if it keeps moving. Have your arms fallen asleep?”

“Yes,” Norris said. “Move around a bit, get the blood flowing.”

“What do you think they’ll do to us?”

“I don’t know, except they’re changing their plans somehow. They thought they were getting Czolgosz, but they ended up with us.”

“If they had him, they’d probably get out of Buffalo quick.”

“Maybe.” Norris turned as much as he could to the left, toward the sound of Feeney’s voice. “Now they’ve got us and for the moment they’re sitting tight, trying to figure what to do. The German, Bruener, wanted to kill us right away. But Gimmel, he’s thinking it over, he’s looking for a way to take advantage of this.”

“And there are others,” Feeney said.

“Right. How many you think?”

“The one who took over driving the carriage. And I’ve heard other voices back there—not the German or Gimmel. Two, I think.”

“So there are five of them. Very good, Feeney. But there must be more, too.”

“This damn sack.” Feeney moved in his bunk, the wood creaking under his weight. “It’s hot, it itches, and it smells of potatoes and dirt.”

Finally, the sacks were removed and Norris and Feeney were brought into a cabin where they were allowed to eat at a table. Their hands were still bound and they were given spoons to eat a stew—carrots, potatoes, onions, cabbage, some fatty pieces of mutton—from an iron pot. Gimmel was there, and a man he called Anton, who bore little resemblance to his sister Motka, but there was no sign of the others. Feeney didn’t look good: he’d been sobbing on and off for hours. From the towpath came the sound
of mules braying, which usually meant that the barge would move again soon.

“Where are we going?” Norris said to Gimmel.

“Going?” Gimmel said. “You are in a hurry?” He stood at the foot of the companionway, looking up into pilothouse. The darkening sky that was visible above the stern was overcast, threatening more rain. There was something different about his voice; it was slow and resolved—he sounded like a man who had calculated the odds, didn’t like the result, but decided to proceed anyway. He didn’t bother to look at Norris or Feeney, as though they were immaterial, their fates already determined.

“What happens next?” Norris asked.

Gimmel didn’t seem to hear. Anton, on the other hand, moved about the cabin, trying to keep busy. Clearly, he was nervous. Gimmel said, almost to himself, “They’ll try Czolgosz—the papers say it will be quick, a few days at most—and then they’ll execute him. Perhaps we should execute you as a response.”

Norris put down his spoon and said, “That’s one option.”

“Yes,” Gimmel said, turning to them. “One at a time.”

Feeney’s hands paused over the stew. “It’s gonna be me.” His voice was high, breaking. “I know it is.”

Norris shook his head and lowered his eyes to the pot, meaning:
Eat, just eat
. Obediently, Feeney used both hands to spoon vegetables and gravy into his mouth.

There was a perpetual sameness to Gimmel’s expression: part awe, part sardonic grin. “Most likely. It’s a question of worth, and Norris is worth more than you.”

“How?” Norris said to Gimmel. “How would this execution be carried out?”

“Interesting question.” Gimmel rested his back against the companionway ladder, and as he placed his hands on his knees, a thick knot of rope—a monkey fist—was visible, protruding from his belt. “Let’s consider how the state handles executions. Traditionally, in this country, hanging has been popular. You know back
in ’86 I was in Chicago during the Haymarket riot. The nice thing about hanging is it’s such a public spectacle. There’s a stage, just as in a theater, and the crowd is allowed to gather before the scaffolding as though they were going to witness some grand performance. The victim—
you
would call him the convicted—is marched up a set of stairs, and there’s a moment where he faces the crowd.”

“With or without a sack over his head,” Norris offered.

“True,” Gimmel said. “The sack, of course, might be construed to be an attempt to incorporate an element of decency in the proceedings, but in fact it only whets the crowd’s appetite. They have come not to see justice done, but to see the face of the victim in that moment when he drops through the floor and his neck snaps. They want to know if it will be instantaneous—and therefore merciful—or if there will be a dance to death. In fact, I think the sack only sparks the imagination. I’ve seen enough hangings, Norris. They’re usually swift and efficient, and there’s little by way of entertainment—just a body dangling from a crooked head. But see, if you cover the head, it allows the audience to imagine the worst. And that’s what you want from an execution, the opportunity for people—your citizens—to be able to imagine the worst form of suffering. That’s what it’s really all about—the imagination, not putting the poor bastard to death. You’ve already got him off the streets and you could simply throw him in a jail cell, to die of starvation, unseen. No, you’ve got to have your citizens
see
the sentence carried out. The worse, the better. It is, really, prescriptive.”

“You’re going to hang us?” Feeney said.

Gimmel looked at Feeney, disappointed. “But of course you know that in New York State they don’t hang convicts any longer.”

Feeney glanced over at Norris, who only nodded in an effort to show calm. “In New York,” Norris said, “they use electrocution.”

“Right,” Gimmel said. “Very modern, efficient, and—”

“Expensive,” Norris said.

“It requires Thomas Edison.”

“So,” Feeney said. “How? How you going do it?”

Gimmel studied Feeney with detachment now, but he didn’t say anything, and Feeney began to rock from side to side in his seat—until Gimmel said to Anton, “Take him forward.”

Feeney was still, his face childishly horrified. “You ain’t gonna to tell me?”

Gimmel said to Anton, “Tie him up good, hands and feet.” Anton didn’t move for a moment, and then he asked, “What about—”

Gimmel considered Norris and then said, “No, he stays here.”

Feeney’s head moved quickly now as he looked at Norris, at Gimmel, at Anton, who came to the table. At first, it seemed that Feeney would resist because there was something childlike and desperate in his face. His eyes sought something—anything—from them that might save him from this moment.

Anton took hold of his upper arm and said, “Come on.” His voice was frightened, too, and even apologetic.

Feeney held still, looking as though he would fight any effort to make him stand up.

“You come,” Anton said, pleading. “No much trouble, okay?”

“Feeney,” Norris said, “don’t.”

But Feeney’s face was turning red as he breathed in short desperate gasps, and he began to writhe as though some foreign, evil agent had taken possession of his body. He pulled away from Anton’s grip and spittle streamed from his mouth. When Anton took hold of his arm with both hands, Feeney released a high, keening wail that didn’t sound human. He kicked the table legs until the iron pot went over the edge, its contents spilling across the floor.

Anton stepped away from him, his boots and pants covered with gravy, but still Feeney twisted and kicked in his seat, and Gimmel came toward him now, yanking out the monkey fist from inside his belt. Norris stood up quickly and swung both arms together so that his bound fists struck Gimmel’s face. Gimmel
staggered backward, but then caught his balance. Blood ran from his disfigured nose. He swung his arm low, and the monkey fist hit Norris’s stomach hard. Norris doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, and he fell to his hands and knees. For a moment he was in such pain and so desperate to breathe that he wasn’t aware of anything else in the cabin. But then he raised his head and watched Gimmel beat Feeney with the rope.

“You’ll
kill
him,” Anton said.

Feeney was on his knees, his face pulpy and bloodied, but Gimmel didn’t stop hitting him. Overhead, there were running footsteps on the deck, and the large German, Bruener, scuttled down the companionway, shouting for Gimmel to stop. Bruener caught the arm holding the monkey fist, and then pulled Gimmel away from Feeney.