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The sharp barking of the revolvers, the jangle of broken glass, the oaths, blows and cries suddenly ceased. Then, as Poole's friends sprang for the assassin, Baker jumped to his feet and dashed through the open door. He would never have escaped then had it not been for Turner. Directly after that personage had injured himself he dropped down and hugging the floor during the shooting, he had dragged himself toward the door. He was close to
the exit when Baker fired his last shot and leaped away over him. Lozier, Shay and several others of us tripped over Turner and were still mixed up on the floor when the police came surging in.
Poole lingered for two weeks before the end came. He had been removed to his home and examination showed that, while the heart had not been reached by the bullet, the pericardium had been pierced and there was no possibility of saving the victim's life, as it was impossible to reach the bullet. Poole recovered consciousness and made a statement that
his death was due to an organized plot of Morrissey. Further, he swore that he had been unarmed on the night he had been shot.
His recuperation was only temporary and on the fourteenth day the physician in attendance announced the last hour was at hand. Poole heard the announcement with a placid face, looked up at Hyer, who had been constantly at his bedside, then drew his last breath and managed to gasp: "I die a true American!"
In the meanwhile New York existed in a condition of excitement no words can adequately describe. The entire affair was fraught with a significance that political as well as personal. It would have been worth the life of any person even suspected of being remotely connected with the Morrissey faction to come anywhere close to the district of the home on
Christopher Street near West where Poole lay dying. The vicinity had taken on the appearance of a camp. A steady line of vehicles poured through the street depositing their freight of anxious inquirers at the Poole door. Not alone the comfortable equipage of the sport, but the wagons and carts of the venders and butchers halted long enough for the latest bulletin. Many strangers from out of town traveled to Christopher Street before seeking their hotel. The Herald, Tribune, Times and every other New York paper of consequence had their reporters on hand day and night. But there was no serious outbreak until the day of the Poole funeral. That a day in New York to be remembered. It was a pageant, this funeral, the like of which the city has probably never witnessed. The funeral was set for Sunday and it seemed
as though all New York was out on that eventful day.
The Day of The Poole Funeral
The sidewalks all along the route of the funeral procession were jammed, and every housetop and window was clustered. The very trees, awnings and projecting signs were seized on as points of vantage and the air was alive with the great roar of the multitude. Opposite the dead man's residence was a carpenter-shop owned by a man named Onderdonk. It was a sturdy two-story frame building with a stairway on the outside giving access to the upper floor. The spectators packed this stairway as one solid mass and every inch of roof space was also taken up. The structure began to creak ominously, then the roof and stairway gave way, and the people and the timbers fell together in one common wreck. Four people were killed and
thirty injured. To add to the excitement, the firebells were set ringing and several companies were called to the scene of the casualty.
It was amid this turmoil that the funeral cortege got under way. It was headed by a detail of several hundred of the old police force. The van of the procession was led by the Poole Association, 2,000 strong. Then came deputations from the Order of the United Americans from various cities forming a body twice as great. The famous Shiffler Hose of Philadelphia
followed with about 1,000 members, and then came various local and visiting fire companies headed by the Red Rovers, Engine No. 34, of which Poole had been a member. Deputations of the volunteer fire companies had traveled hundreds of miles to do the occasion honor, the Mash Markey Hose coming from Baltimore, and Boston also being represented. Then came thousands of citizens in advance of the hearse in which the casket rested under the stars
and stripes and which was guarded by two companies named in the dead man's honor as the Poole Guards, and the Poole Light Guards, captained respectively by Captain Jim Bannon and myself.
The course lay through Christopher and Bleecker Streets on to Broadway and every foot of the way had to be cleared as the cortege slowly made its way downtown. At Grand Street, a body of five hundred men in the familiar attire of working butchers knelt with their heads uncovered as the procession passed. They fell in behind and accompanied the march to the
ferry. The funeral and its immediate escort crossed to Brooklyn and continued on to Greenwood Cemetery. There, after most impressive ceremonies, Bill Poole was committed to that last long rest which comes to busy and troubled lives such as the like of his as well as to those of less troubled men.
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