A March to Remember Read Free Page A

him away. “By blowing up the whole damned works, the Capitol, the White House, Congress, everything.”
    Could the city be in real danger after all? I wondered. Why would he be so careless as to reveal his plans to the White House police beforehand?
    Putting my back to the anarchist, still spouting his plans for the destruction of the city, I hastened on my way, annoyed to have been delayed. His rhetoric isn’t helping anyone, I thought. With my foot in midair above the top step, my progress was again hampered when a hand gripped my shoulder.
    â€œLet go of me,” I said, yanking my shoulder away.
    â€œMiss Davish!” a man’s sharp voice exclaimed as I nearly lost my footing on the stairs. He grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me back. My feet firmly on the ground, I pulled out of his grip and stared the man in the face.
    â€œMr. Morris?”
    â€œI didn’t mean to startle you.”
    â€œYou didn’t.” I sounded more peevish than I would’ve liked. Annoyed both at myself for overreacting and at him for presuming to grip my shoulder, I said sternly, “What do you want, Mr. Morris?”
    â€œI . . . I . . .” he stammered. “I’m finished here and thought I’d walk back with you.”
    He being Senator Smith’s confidential clerk and private secretary, I knew better than to ask what business took Claude Morris to the White House. I admit, though, I was curious. Since the day Sir Arthur and I came to Washington as guests of Senator Meriwether Lewis Smith, I’d been curious about what role Mr. Morris played in the senator’s household. Similar to what I did for Sir Arthur, Mr. Morris performed the basic duties of stenographer and typist, saw to the senator’s correspondence and schedule and any other general tasks the senator might require. But that’s where my knowledge of what he did ended. I’d only been in Washington for a couple of weeks, but Claude Morris appeared to do far more for his employer than simply the duties of a private secretary. (Of course, the same could be said for me.) Mr. Morris appeared to be the senator’s liaison between other members of Congress, his font of knowledge regarding all things political, his adviser, as well as, dare I say, his spy.
    Claude Morris was a pleasant-looking man, with keen eyes, a long, thick, well-trimmed mustache, and a few fawn curls swept back high on his forehead. He wore the same tailored dark suit and derby hat that seemed the uniform of men of his class and position. He was always ready with a shy smile for any of the ladies, including me, but was slightly pompous when given the chance to speak at any length. Yet I was still surprised that he’d grabbed my shoulder. I hadn’t thought his presumption went that far.
    â€œThank you, but I’m not going back right away. I’m meeting someone at the train station.”
    â€œI’ll escort you there, then.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Morris, but I’m quite used to walking about on my own.” I tried in vain to keep my annoyance out of my voice.
    â€œYes, I’ve heard about your outlandish habit of wandering about the city in the early-morning hours. Risky, if you ask me.” I didn’t ask. “You may be unaware, though, that these are unusual days. Already men of unknown quality have made their way from Coxey’s camp into the city. We are preparing, even as we speak, for the eventuality of the army as a whole attempting to approach the Capitol. Simply put, with that Populism-spouting, Theosophy-touting rabble heading our way soon, it’s not safe for a woman to be rambling about on her own.”
    â€œI’m walking to the train station, Mr. Morris. I’m not rambling about.”
    â€œBut you must’ve heard that man threatening to blow up the White House and the Capitol just now?”
    â€œOf course, Mr. Morris. And the police have him well in