Golden Illuminati Read online

  Golden Illuminati

  PRE-DAWN

  March 13, 1881 – Saint Petersburg, Russia

  As on every Sunday for more than a score of years, Alexander Nikolaevich – Tsar Alexander II of Russia – went by closed carriage to Manege to review the Life Guards of the Reserve Infantry and of the Sapper Battalion regiments. Six Circassians accompanied him, trotting through the snow close beside the heavily-reinforced, imperial carriage. A seventh Cossack sat beside the coachman. Two sleighs followed, bearing the head of the tsar’s guards and Police Chief Dvorzhitsky. The procession took its usual route along the Catherine Canal and then across the Pevchesky Bridge over the Moika River.

  Alexander bent forward, pulling back the blind very slightly. He peered out through the narrow slit which then afforded him a limited view of the passing scenery. The elaborate, yellow-painted, iron railings of the bridge made him think, momentarily, of his father, who had been the first to pass over this structure some forty years before. The new bridge had replaced the old wooden one that had been located farther downstream. A smile briefly crossed his handsome face as he recalled his father’s oft-repeated story of why the bridge had been placed where it now was.

  “Yuri! Count Yuri Alexandrovich Golovkin! What a character! One day he was in so much of a hurry to see me that he stepped from his boat before it had come to rest. He fell into the Moyka and, I swear, if his companion had not acted quickly he would have drowned. When Stasov asked me where to locate the new bridge, I said ‘Put it close to Yuri’s home, so he doesn’t keep falling into the river!’” Then he would laugh and laugh.

  Alexander let the blind fall back into place. He felt good. That morning he had signed a document granting the first ever constitution to the Russian people. Count Loris-Melikoff had urged him not to review the parade that week; to allow some time for his actions to take effect. But Alexander was not one to break with tradition.

  The imperial carriage continued on its way, now passing through narrow streets lined with cheering people. In the first of the following sleighs, Police Chief Dvorzhitsky’s eyes swept back and forth, studying the crowd. He felt uneasy. The revolutionaries had been active of late and had previously tried to assassinate the tsar. They wouldn’t give up. Suddenly he tensed.

  A short young man in a heavy, black overcoat with a fur collar, pushed through the crowd toward the carriage. As the police chief opened his mouth to cry out, the man lunged between two onlookers and threw an object at the carriage. It hit one of the front wheels and bounced to the ground, exploding with a deafening roar. The young man, and those all around him, was knocked to the ground. The closest Cossack fell with his horse, both besmeared with blood. The driver of the carriage toppled to the ground, the Cossack beside him grabbing-up the reins and controlling the team.

  Dvorzhitsky threw aside his fur travel rug and leapt to the ground, his feet slipping on the trodden snow. He lurched forward toward the carriage. Pushing his way between the distraught Circassians, he arrived at the carriage door as Alexander opened it and leaned out.

  “Get back inside, Imperial Majesty! There may well be . . .”

  “No! I must see to my fallen Cossack.”

  Alexander descended from the carriage and moved across to the dying soldier, pushing past his chief of police. Dvorzhitsky noticed that four police officers had dragged the young man in the black coat to his feet and now held him firmly, awaiting orders. He turned back to the tsar.

  “Majesty . . .”

  The young man being held, shook his head as though to clear it and then shouted something over his shoulder.

  “Quickly!” Dvorzhitsky urged, taking the liberty of grasping the tsar’s arm. At that moment another object landed at the tsar’s feet, exploding on impact.

  Later, Police Chief Dvorzhitsky was to say: “I was deafened by the new explosion, burned, wounded and thrown to the ground. Suddenly, amid the smoke and snowy fog, I heard His Majesty’s weak voice cry ‘Help!’ Gathering what strength I had, I jumped up and rushed to the tsar. His Majesty was half-lying, half-sitting, leaning on his right arm. Thinking he was merely wounded heavily, I tried to lift him but the tsar’s legs were shattered, and the blood poured out of them. Twenty people, with wounds of varying degree, lay on the sidewalk and on the street. Some managed to stand, others to crawl, still others tried to get out from beneath bodies that had fallen on them. Through the snow, debris, and blood you could see fragments of clothing, epaulets, sabers, and bloody chunks of human flesh.”

  The remaining loyal Cossacks got Alexander into one of the sleighs and he was rushed to the Winter Palace. A trail of blood marked where he was carried up the marble staircase to his study. There he was laid on a couch. Dr. Borkin had been summoned and was in attendance. Gravely he spoke to Princess Catherine[1] and the members of the Romanov family who had rushed to Alexander’s side.

  “His Imperial Majesty’s legs are destroyed,” he told them, “and he is bleeding to death. There is nothing that can be done for him. He has but fifteen minutes left, God rest his soul.”

  The tsar was given Communion and Extreme Unction. At 3:30pm the royal standard flying above the palace was finally lowered.

  The thrower of the first bomb was found to be Nikolai Rysakov. That of the second, fatal, bomb was Ignacy Hryniewiecki. Had that second bomb failed, there was a third man, Emelianoff, who had a bomb wrapped in newspaper, under his arm. All three were members of a group of radicals calling themselves the Nrodnaya Volya; The People’s Will.

  July 2, 1881 – Washington, D.C.

  James Abram Garfield was pleased. He was about to take a train from the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad Depot, in Washington D.C., to visit Williams College, Massachusetts. He had graduated from Williams with distinction in 1856. Old memories played through his mind as he descended from the barouche and moved toward the railroad waiting room. It was nine o’clock in the morning. The train was due in fifteen minutes.

  It was less than four months since Garfield’s inauguration as the twentieth president of the United States, yet he looked forward to the break in his duties. After a successful military career, and at the urging of Abraham Lincoln, he had entered Congress at the age of thirty-two. In 1880, at age forty-nine, he was elected U.S. Senator for Ohio but became involved in the presidential campaign for John Sherman. However, through a series of unexpected events, he ended up being elected President himself.

  Garfield had gone on to do battle with the powerful Senator Roscoe Conkling and had won, but it had been a hard battle of nerves. He desperately needed this break. Beside him strode his good friend James Gillespie Blaine, Secretary of State in Garfield’s cabinet. Blaine was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a full head of hair and a white beard and mustache, in contrast to Garfield’s receding hairline and dark beard.

  “Not too long a wait,” said Blaine, pulling out his gold pocket watch and studying it. “If the train is on time, that is.” They both chuckled.

  They passed through the barrier and moved on along the platform. Suddenly a figure burst out of the ticket office.

  “Oh, no!” Garfield groaned. He immediately recognized the man as Charles Guiteau, a sometime lawyer who had been harassing the president for months, seeking an appointment as an overseas ambassador . . . a position for which Garfield thought him entirely unsuited. After numerous demands – first for ambassadorship to Vienna and then to Paris – Blaine had told the man to leave and never to return.

  “My God! . . .” Blaine suddenly raised his arm and tried to move between Guiteau and the president.

  “What . . . ?” Then Garfield saw what his friend had seen. Guiteau held a large service revolver in his hand – a Webley British Bulldog .44 – and swiftly raised it and pointed it
at the president. Without a moment’s pause, he twice pulled the trigger.

  Bang! Bang!

  Two shots rang out, not seconds apart. They were fired at point-blank range and there was no chance of them missing. Garfield felt a sharp pain in his arm and then an excruciating one in his stomach. He gasped “My God! What is this?” Then he fell to the ground.

  Mortally wounded, Garfield remained fully conscious but in great pain. A railway guard grabbed the gunman and detained him until a policeman appeared to arrest him. Guiteau went without a struggle, apparently proud of what he had done. Blaine cried vainly for a doctor. Eventually one emerged from the waiting room. He administered brandy and spirits of ammonia, upon which the president vomited. Then, almost miraculously, a leading Washington doctor, D. Willard Bliss, appeared and took charge. However, it was a mixed blessing.

  “We must locate the bullet,” said Bliss. He rolled up his sleeves and produced a long, needle-like object from his bag. This he inserted in the president’s stomach wound and started moving it around, Garfield crying out pitifully at every movement. Suddenly the probe became stuck between shattered fragments of the eleventh rib and Garfield screamed aloud. It took some time for Bliss to get the probe free and remove it. He then inserted his finger in the wound and moved it around, widening the opening.

  Eventually Blaine was able to get the president moved to the White House, as he put it “Before the good doctor kills the man!”

  Over the days and weeks that followed, as many as sixteen doctors examined President Garfield. Most of them probed with their fingers or with instruments that had never been sterilized. Indications were that the bullet had lodged close to the spine, though the general consensus of the doctors was that it was somewhere in the abdomen. As the summer wore on, the heat, humidity and insects did nothing to help Garfield’s condition. He developed internal sores and the wound continuously oozed pus.

  At one point the inventor Alexander Graham Bell visited the White House with a hastily constructed metal detector. Bell failed to locate the bullet and left frustrated, unaware that the president lay on a mattress containing the newly invented metal coil-springs.

  It was decided to move President Garfield to the New Jersey shore, where a large house, known as the Francklyn Cottage, was made available for him. The railroad quickly laid track from the main line to the house and, on September 6, a special train of three railroad cars took him there. The president, a well-built man of six feet, initially weighing 210 pounds, now weighed only 130 pounds. Mrs. Garfield sat beside her husband for the railroad journey, trying to reassure him.

  On the evening of September 16, Dr. Bliss was summoned by a servant to the bedside of the ailing man. Immediately, Bliss saw that President Garfield was dying. He summoned Mrs. Garfield, two other doctors – Agnew and Hamilton – and Colonel Rockwell. At 10:35pm James Garfield died.

  Charles Guiteau never denied shooting the president, but always claimed that it was the doctors who killed him.

  Guiteau, like his father Luther, followed the teachings of John H. Noyes. Noyes promoted communal living and multiple sex partners; anathema to most Victorians. In 1860, young Charles Guiteau had traveled to the Oneida, New York, community that was the hub of Noyes’s cult, and took up residence. He had remained there for five years.

  March 2, 1882 – London, England

  It was true that the Queen’s carriage on the Royal train had a lavatory, but that hardly made up for the jolting stops and starts, the noisy steam whistle, and the general dirt and dust of the long journey. So thought Queen Victoria, as she stepped down from the wooden carriage, thankful to be back at Windsor. The Taff Vale 4-4-2 tank locomotive, newly painted and boldly sporting the royal coat of arms, gave a final snort and blast of steam, as though bidding a fond farewell to its royal passenger. Victoria refrained from looking in its direction and, instead, forced a smile toward the gathered villagers of Windsor who crowded the platform. She could see that the crowd also stretched away down the road, leading from Windsor railway station toward the ever-present Windsor Castle.

  The station master bowed the Queen toward her horse-drawn carriage, sweeping his top hat back and forth, as though clearing a path. She gave him a brief nod and allowed the footman to assist her into the carriage. A platoon of the Queen’s Life Guards sat astride their horses in line behind the coach, the sun glinting off their helmets and breastplates.

  Her majesty made herself comfortable in the brougham, permitting her youngest daughter and constant companion Beatrice to smooth down her skirt and adjust the tartan, woollen, knee-blanket. How refreshing, Victoria thought to herself, to be out of that smelly, jolting, railroad monster. The Royal railway carriage had been designed especially for her comfort, she knew, but it really did not compare to the horse-drawn variety. As the coachman cracked his whip and the pair of matched dapple grey mares moved out of the Windsor station yard, the queen peered out of the window and raised a tentatively acknowledging hand to the cheering throng that lined the street. It was but a short drive to the castle and, despite the chill in the air, the sun was shining and the sky was clear.

  “Open the window, child.”

  “But – is it not too cold, mama?”

  “Tsk! Open the window. We will not freeze to death on such a short journey. The air will do you good. Look at your pale face, will you?”

  Dutifully, Beatrice reached across her mother and lowered the carriage window.

  She had hardly settled back into her seat when she screamed.

  On the crowded street, a tall, angular, young man in a bowler hat reached through the cheering onlookers on either side of him and raised a pistol to point at the Queen. Without a moment’s pause, he pulled the trigger. Beatrice screamed again as the bullet flew into the carriage, narrowly missing the Queen, and tore through the wood and fabric of the back panel. Victoria, seemingly unmoved, watched as the crowd turned on the would-be assassin and disarmed him. He was dragged to the ground and would surely have been trampled had not the police, led by Superintendent Hayes of the Windsor Police, not grabbed him and hustled him away.

  “Drive on!” Victoria commanded, raising her voice to the coachman, who had allowed the mares to pause. He jostled the reins and the brougham resumed its journey. Without asking permission, Beatrice leaned across and closed the window.

  “It is worth being shot at . . . to see how much one is loved.”

  Beatrice looked at the queen, eyes wide.

  “You – you don’t mind people shooting at you, mama?” she asked in a whisper.

  “There have been six – make that now seven – attempts on our life.” Her mouth set in a grim line. “Edward Oxford. John Francis. John William Bean. William Hamilton. Robert Pate. Arthur O’Connor. We remember them all.”

  The failed assassin was a young Scotsman named Roderick Maclean. He had previously sent a poem to the Queen, expressing his love and loyalty of the monarch. Unfortunately, it was some of the worst poetry that anyone had ever seen! It was roundly rejected. Maclean took the rejection very much to heart, seeing it as an affront to his artistic abilities. He determined to have his revenge.

  Maclean was tried for high treason, found “not guilty but insane,” and sent to an asylum. He had been a member of Tobar nam Buadh; The Spring of Virtues.

  DAYBREAK

  Chapter One

  London, England – March, 1899

  “You are going to need money . . . a great deal of money.”

  Mathers swallowed and let his eyes follow his visitor as the other man moved across to the sideboard where, uninvited, he poured himself another glass of whisky. He then moved to stand at the window. He left the whisky decanter open and Mathers unconsciously crossed the room to close it.

  “Don’t you think it cost a lot of money to start the French Revolution?” asked the figure at the window, gazing down at a passing hansom cab. Mathers could hear the clip-clop of its horse’s hooves even though the window was closed. “And the assassination of t
he American presidents Lincoln and more recently – what was his name? – Garfield? The elimination of Russia’s Alexander II? Do you not think these things cost money?”

  Mathers knew these were rhetorical questions but he moved to stand beside the other man.

  “Yes. You are going to need a great deal of money.” He downed his whisky, handed Mathers the glass, and then moved to the door where he pulled on his overcoat. “Think about it, Samuel. Let me know what ideas you come up with.” He took up his top hat, gloves and cane and left the room.

  Mathers gazed down into the empty glass in his hand and gnawed on his lip. Where was he going to get “a great deal of money”?

  ***

  The rain came down steadily as Samuel Lidell MacGregor Mathers turned off Charing Cross Road into Denmark Place. He paused to glance back at the busy thoroughfare with its clatter of horsedrawn traffic and then, drawing his Inverness coat closer about him, turned back to study the small bookshop in the little alleyway.

  CHAMBERS

  Antique and Collectible Books; Maps; Prints.

  Printer ~ Fine Printing

  Prop.: Alec Chambers, Esq.

  Mathers had found old and interesting books here before and now made it a habit to drop by at least once a week, to check on any new stock. As he pushed open the door, a dull bell clattered its announcement of his arrival. He closed the door behind him and advanced into the cramped confines, slipping off his cape and shaking it vigorously. He hung it, with his hat, on the oak hall-rack positioned by the door.

  “Ah, Mister Mathers,” greeted an elderly clerk perched on a high stool behind the counter. His watery grey eyes peered over the wire rims of his spectacles. A hesitant smile attempted to play at the corners of his mouth. “We ‘aven’t seen you in a few days, sir. Narsty weather outside, I see.”