Complete Life of William McKinley and Story of His Assassination. Everett Marshall

mistake.

      But the President, now finally unconscious, and breathing but faintly, struggled on. Midnight, 1 and 2 o’clock, found him wavering on the verge, and the men of science could but stand and marvel at the wondrous but hopeless fight which he had maintained so long. Intervals of apparent consciousness came upon him. Sometimes he opened his fading eyes and gazed calmly around.

      At 2 o’clock the dim, gray light began to fall across his shrunken face, and then—death won!

      He had been unconscious, the doctors said, for nearly six hours. During all this time he had been gradually sinking. For the last half hour he had been in such condition that it was difficult to tell when he breathed.

      With him at the time of his death was Dr. Rixey, alone of all the physicians, and by the side of the bed were grouped Senator Hanna and members of the President’s family.

      He died unattended by a minister of the gospel, but his last words were an humble submission to the will of God, in whom he believed. He was reconciled to the cruel fate to which an assassin’s bullet had condemned him, and faced death in the same spirit of calmness and poise which has marked his long and honorable career.

      His last conscious words, reduced to writing by Dr. Mann, who stood at his bedside when they were uttered, were as follows:

      “Good-by, all; good-by. It is God’s way. His will be done, not ours.”

      His relatives and the members of his official family were at the Milburn house, except Secretary Wilson, who did not avail himself of the opportunity and some of his personal and political friends took leave of him. This painful ceremony was simple. His friends came to the door of the sick room, took a longing glance at him and turned tearfully away.

      He was practically unconscious during this time, but the powerful heart stimulants, including oxygen, were employed to restore him to consciousness for his final parting with his wife. He asked for her and she sat at his side and held his hand. He consoled her and bade her good-by.

      She went through the heart-trying scene with the same bravery and fortitude with which she had borne the grief of the tragedy which ended his life.

      That last day on earth had tried him severely. He had commenced wearing away a little before 3 o’clock Friday morning. Throughout the day and evening the expectations of attendants, physicians and friends oscillated as a pendulum between hope and despair. Hopeless bulletins followed encouraging reports from the sick room, and they in turn gave way to recurrent hope.

      The truth was too evident to be passed over or concealed. The President’s life was hanging in the balance. The watchers felt that at any moment might come the announcement of a change which would foreshadow the end.

      When it was learned that the President was taking small quantities of nourishment hope rose that he would pass the crisis in safety. Everybody knew, though—and no attempt was made to conceal it—that the coming night would in all human probability be his last on earth. It was known that he was being kept alive by the strongest of heart stimulants, and that the physicians had obtained a supply of oxygen to be administered if the worse came.

      During the day President McKinley was conscious when he was not sleeping. Early in the morning when he awoke he looked out of the window and saw that the sky was overcast with heavy clouds.

      “It is not so bright as it was yesterday,” said he.

      His eyes then caught the waving branches of the trees, glistening with rain, and their bright green evidently made an agreeable impression upon him.

      “It is pleasant to see them,” said he, feebly.

      Mrs. McKinley did not take her usual drive. She saw the President once before night, and then only for a moment. No words passed between them. The physicians led her to the bedside of her husband, and after she had looked at him for a moment they led her away.

      While Mrs. McKinley was told that the President was not so well the physicians deemed it best not to attempt to explain to her fully the nature of the complications which had arisen or the real gravity of his condition.

      As fast as steam could bring them the President’s secretaries, the members of his family and the physicians who had left convinced that the President would recover, were whirled back to Buffalo. They went at once to the house in which he was lying, and the information which they obtained there was of a nature to heighten rather than to relieve their fears.

      All night the doctors worked to keep the President alive. The day broke with a gloomy sky and a pouring rain, broken by frequent bursts of gusty downpours. It seemed as though nature was sympathizing with the gloom which surrounded the ivy-clad house about which the sentries were steadily marching.

      The 2 o’clock bulletin, issued at 2:30, swung the pendulum away over on the side of confidence. It stated that the President had more than held his own since morning, and that his condition justified the expectation of further improvement. It added: “He is better than at this time yesterday.”

      Faces up and down the street brightened. Telegraph messenger boys, in their youthful spirits, restrained all the day by the gloom around the Milburn house, whooped as they ran and nobody reproved. The sun shone again.

      But the news was too good to last. Secretary Cortelyou walked across the street to the press and telegraph tents and explained that the sentence. “He is better than at this time yesterday,” should be stricken out. Then the sky was black again.

      The bravery of Mrs. McKinley in this last moment was only paralleled by the heroism with which the President himself, murmuring the words of “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” turned his face away from all so dear to him in life, and passed into the last and eternal sleep.

      All through the struggle of Friday when the erratic heart of the President leaped and then failed, Mrs. McKinley’s courage had been at the highest point. The beautiful womanhood within her, the memories of thirty years of perfect married life, the recollections of the tender devotions of the dying President, rose and gave her the strength needed to face the worst.

      She remained in her apartments surrounded by friends, anxious to be by the President’s side, but obedient to Dr. Rixey’s wishes that she should not come until she was called.

      Oxygen had been given the President, and under its influence he had slightly revived. He told Dr. Rixey that he realized he was about to die, and he asked for Mrs. McKinley.

      She came and knelt down by his bed and his eyes rested lovingly upon her. His first solicitude was for her—her care, her happiness. All the love of three decades shone in his face as he feebly put out his hands and covered her own with his.

      He knew that he was dying, she only half apprehended it. But even in such a trial she kept herself up most bravely, lifting her tear-stained face to Dr. Rixey’s and exclaiming:

      “I know that you will save him. I cannot let him go. The country cannot spare him.”

      The President’s strength did not last long. Unconsciousness returned to him, and they led Mrs. McKinley away.

      When she was without the room Mr. Milburn told her that the President could hardly live until morning.

      Herbert P. Bissell came to her side as she wavered, and Dr. Wasdin hurried from the President’s chamber and administered a restorative.

      Little by little Mrs. McKinley gained new strength, and in half an hour was in full control of herself. Several ladies sat beside her, and to one of these she turned and whispered:

      “I will be strong for his sake.”

      An invalid herself, racked for twenty years with pain, almost helpless at times, since the years in which her children passed from her, the wife and sweetheart of the dying President conquered herself.

      And so the heavy hours hurried away. Midnight had come, and gone. The dawn was lingering far in the east, and not even the edge of the world glowed with the promise of day. It had rained on Friday, and a storm had raged which will long be remembered by those who were called abroad in the troubled