UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT
INTELLIGENCE SUMMARY FILE
Classification: RESTRICTED
Circulation: LIMITED
File Origin: Federal Intelligence Service (Compiled Post-Facto)
Subject Reference: Goldman, E. / Cornelius Finglebottum
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SUBJECTS OF INTEREST
Primary Subject:
Emma Goldman
Known political agitator and extremist.
Prior surveillance history on file.
Secondary Subject:
Cornelius Finglebottum
Residence: Cornelius Finglebottum’s House
Prior indications of political extremism.
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OBSERVATION SUMMARY
Goldman was observed on multiple occasions in public and semi-public spaces in New York City engaging in conversation with Cornelius Finglebottum and occasionally with other individuals. These initial interactions were seemingly unscheduled but regularly repeated. Length of contact went beyond normal expected contact times and raised suspicions about Cornelius Finglebottum.
Conversations were conducted in low tones. Cornelius Finglebottum seemed especially aware of surroundings. On at least one occasion, discussion ceased upon the approach of uniformed authority.
There are no physical objects that passed during the meeting observations. Goldman was observed gesturing strongly, while Cornelius Finglebottum appeared to be listening attentively.
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BEHAVIORAL NOTES
Goldman exhibited her customary confidence and composure. Cornelius Finglebottum displayed signs of agitation and fixation, particularly when listening. Observers noted a shift in demeanor following these interactions, marked by increased resolve and withdrawal.
The link seems ideological rather than personal.
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ASSESSMENT
While no explicit criminal conspiracy was observed, the association of the above subjects is considered significant. Goldman’s influence on younger or more volatile individuals has been documented elsewhere.
Cornelius Finglebottum demonstrates traits consistent with previous cases relating to escalation following exposure to radical doctrine.
The intent of these meetings is not clear yet. The potential for future action should be kept in mind.
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RECOMMENDATION
Continue passive monitoring through indirect means.
Record future associations.
Refrain from intervention without clear illegal conduct.
INTERNAL OBSERVATION MEMORANDUM
Date of Report: April 3, 1908
Time: Approx. 8:15 PM – 10:00 PM
Location: 14 E 38th St #701, New York, NY 10016
Reporting Officer: Detective Samuel H. Reeves, Badge No. 193
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SUBJECTS
Multiple individuals, male.
One subject identified as Coalhouse Walker, Jr.
White male identified as Cornelius Finglebottum
Additional black individuals unidentified.
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OBSERVATION
This officer observed a private gathering of individuals under circumstances suggesting deliberation rather than social assembly. Entry to the premises was closely watched and curtains were drawn. Conversation stopped upon the approach of public strangers in the hallway.
The subjects came separately and tried not to be seen. Cornelius Finglebottum lingered momentarily outside before entering, as if surveying the block.
Conversation was low and intermittent. Although there were no intelligible statements, patterns of speech conveyed grievance, determination, and discontent with existing leadership. The mood of the assembly had been grave and controlled.
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CONDUCT OF SUBJECTS
Coalhouse Walker, Jr. was observed listening more than speaking. When he spoke, others seemed to follow his lead. His behavior was well-controlled.
No visible exchange of money or weapons was observed.
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ASSESSMENT
While no unlawful act was witnessed, the nature of the meeting, the identities of the subjects, and the manner of their conduct indicate a gathering of potential significance. It seems as if this group of individuals may be conspiring for some event. Keep a careful eye on Walker and Cornelius Finglebottum.
UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT
FOREIGN INTELLIGENCE DIVISION
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EVENT SUMMARY REPORT
Classification: CONFIDENTIAL
Region: Northern Mexico
Date: Early phase of revolutionary hostilities
Subject: Cornelius Finglebottum (American National, Unidentified)
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SUMMARY OF EVENT
Field reporting indicates that an unidentified white male, believed to be Cornelius Finglebottum, was killed in an explosion during revolutionary activity in northern Mexico.
The explosion took place in a spot used either for the storage and/or preparation of weaponry within the battlefield. The explosion allegedly reached 100 feet into the air and left no remains. The explosion is reported to be accidental in nature.
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DETAILS
Cornelius Finglebottum was also reportedly involved in activities that supported revolutionary forces at the time of this incident. There are no official membership or enrollment records.
The explosion resulted in extensive damage. No identifiable remains were recovered. Personal effects were destroyed or unaccounted for.
Exact time and location of the incident vary between sources.
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CONFIRMATION STATUS
Due to the absence of recoverable remains and the instability of the region, positive identification of the subject is not possible. However, multiple independent reports confirm the death of Cornelius Finglebottum consistent with prior descriptions. And Cornelius Finglebottum has not been seen so far.
UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT
RECOVERED JOURNAL ENTRIES
Classification: RESTRICTED
Circulation: LIMITED
File Origin: From the Residence of Cornelius Finglebottum
Subject Reference: Cornelius Finglebottum
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RECOVERED ENTRY 32
Tonight’s events are stuck in my head, and I cannot help myself from replaying every instant. Today is the day that I met Emma Goldman, she who had been with my dear Evelyn. Today, I found a part of myself, a part of my soul. For the past few days, I have stood around the cold streets of New York, waiting for Emma to notice me. I do not understand what I was thinking when I went to see the office of Mother Earth. It seems that my wanting for Evelyn had become unbearable, and I needed to see someone, someone who would put everything in place.
When Emma noticed me, I felt a raw pang of joy that I find hard to describe. The room snapped into focus, and I felt…alive. I am weak, aimless, balding. But she saw through me, as if I were a small child. Oh, Emma, how are you so strong? She gave me her attention, ever so brisk and terse. Yet, I felt relieved. It seems that I am drawn to her in some way, not like Evelyn, but like… a mother. I am not drawn to comfort. I am drawn to Emma’s strong, dominant authority.
I was admitted today into the cohort of revolutionaries, the comrades of Emma. They thought I was a police! But I passed their tests, their scrutiny, their irony. They sized me up, questioning if I was useful, and I passed. It is with shame that I admit that at first I understood pitifully little. There were too many voices, too many different languages—Spanish, Russian, Italian—that was around me, drowning me in the heat. But when Emma spoke, I felt it all. The hunger, the fire, the fellowship that springs from shared passions. I was sweaty, crude, exhausted, but I felt a fire inside of me, burning from the new revelation that Emma brought inside me. I found myself moving closer, edging toward the source of passion. Oh, Emma!
I am slightly frightened by how quickly I surrendered myself to her, believing in her. Now, I am trapped inside the shell that is Emma. She must be true, about Mexico, the wealthy and the bourgeois… and love. Marriage is bondage, she said, and Evelyn would destroy herself with me. My longing for Evelyn, the zeal that comes from within my heart, is greed, she said. Greed! My love is a cage that traps her; but I cannot protest, for Emma speaks the truth. She lives by her words and ideals, fostering friendships with her lovers from the past. It felt as if my suffering was foolish. My suffering does not redeem me, but rather drains me. I have been swallowed by an ever-consuming void. And then Emma stripped my story of its romance—my grief does not make me special. I am eager to be disciplined by her.
She then compared me to Leon Czolgosz, the anarchist who assassinated McKinley. It should have horrified me. It did horrify me. But I felt a sick, cathartic ecstasy, in the way that having someone understand your unfiltered nature can make you feel. At that moment, she saw through my lovesick foolishness. She saw a dangerous boy, someone capable of creating consequence. Emma, how twisted you are! But I too am sick, for I relish in your acceptance.
As I rode away from today, I needed something physical, something that would root me after what had happened. The wind of the train whipped across my face, and I thought I might throw myself under. But I am not courageous; that is Emma’s role, not mine. I want to go back. I want to stay with Emma, learn from her, be with her, become like her. And if it means that I must shoot another man, like Czolgosz, I shall do so.
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RECOVERED ENTRY 63
I can’t stand living with my sister anymore. I don’t have anything against her, although I’m starting to doubt how much she actually respects me. I need to get out because of her husband; I really don’t understand what she sees in him. It’s been especially since he got back from his voyage down to Antarctica that he’s grown so bitter. He just has no empathy for Coalhouse & Sarah. I know if it weren’t for my sister, he would’ve already kicked them out of the house. I can tell their marriage hasn’t been the same since he returned either. My sister cares so much about Sarah and the baby, while my brother in law just stays silently fuming.
Coalhouse is still fighting for the fire department to replace his car that they destroyed. I completely understand his frustration. He had a brand new, spotless Model T with a custom leather roof and brass fitted fixtures. Coalhouse told me about how Willie Conklin and his crew at the toll tried to overcharge him, and then slashed his tires, removed pieces of the engine, destroyed the brass lamps & fittings, and smeared the entire thing in feces. It infuriates me to know that government officers - public servants would treat someone this way. I feel like I have a kind of special understanding of what Coalhouse goes through as a black man. My family remains unable to understand their own privilege.
My brother in law has been spending a lot of time at the police station. He thinks we don’t know, but I see him heading over there from the firework factory when I leave. He would rather hang around the cops than come home to his own family, especially when they’re refusing to even hear Coalhouse. I have to admit, I haven’t missed his presence around the house, but his allegiance with the police over Coalhouse is morally disgusting. I’m in a tough spot; living with the family for any longer will actually drive me insane, but I can’t afford to move out, especially if my brother in law fires me from the factory.
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RECOVERED ENTRY 66
I think Coalhouse just blew up the Emerald Isle Firehouse. I heard the explosion last night, but I only heard the news this morning, in the paper. Apparently 4 firemen were killed, and Coalhouse was demanding to know where Willie Conklin is. I don’t necessarily want any firemen to die, and I know the town is going to lose their minds over it, but I really understand Coalhouse’s anger. The system has wronged him, and he has tried to go about the legal ways of resolving his issues, but has been ignored. What else do you expect someone to do? In a way, I’m kind of envious of his ability to make such an impact and protest the tyrannical treatment. I’ve been feeling without purpose just working at the firework factory everyday. I think I would enjoy being a part of a real movement. The idea of sparking revolutionary change is really appealing.
Dinner tonight was worse than ever. We were sitting in silence for an eternity; no one was even touching their food. Looking at his face slowly becoming redder, before finally speaking, I could tell my brother in law was mad. He went off on my sister for bringing Sarah and Coalhouse in, blaming her for the whole situation. I tried reasoning with him, maybe he could understand just a shred of the significance of Coalhouse’s loss. Of course he didn’t. He’ll never understand.
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RECOVERED ENTRY 67
Coalhouse’s boys shot and killed a policeman today. They’re trying to send a message. The surprising thing is that I think it’s working. The town is horrified, but more than at Coalhouse, their anger is directed towards Willie Conklin. Coalhouse is operating under such secrecy that it’s more convenient to just fulfill his demands: restoring his Model T and firing Willie Conklin. To stop the situation from escalating further, many of the townspeople would rather just give Coalhouse what he wants, and are now angry at Conklin for hanging onto his position. It’s the perfect plot. I feel like Coalhouse would be happy to have my help. I agree wholeheartedly with their movement, and I know a thing or two about making explosives, from my time at the factory.
I think I’ve figured out where Coalhouse’s hideout is. I’ve been following the news closely and scouring for any public notices or other records. Each new story reports his movements, the streets he’s blocked, or sightings of him or his crew. Many witnesses report sightings near the river, or near the abandoned warehouses by the outskirts of town. All of these reports point towards a small, isolated district with mostly old, abandoned buildings. Public notices and police reports on trespassing in the area confirmed that people were being spotted in this usually empty area. I plan to go find and talk to Coalhouse after the family leaves New Rochelle.
I have prepared a statement to show my support for Coalhouse, and to give him adequate reason to enlist me into his movement. “Mr. Walker, I would like to offer my help in your cause, because you have been wronged, and I want to stand with you to defend what is right. A man who lives with dignity should not be attacked for who or what he is. I want to stand with you, not for glory, but because justice belongs to everyone.”
I think this statement is certain to convince him.
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RECOVERED ENTRY 71
Tonight I found him. I used the clues I had gathered from the newspapers to track him down to the old warehouses on the edge of town. The streets grew quiet as I approached the location, my heart pounding with excitement. After looking around some of the warehouses, I finally saw him. Coalhouse was standing near a door, looking around, tense and alert. He looked confused when he first spotted me. He asked me why I came, and what I was doing there. I was nervous. I cleared my throat, ready to give him my statement on why I was so compelled by his movement, but I panicked and ended up just telling him I knew how to make bombs. I’m embarrassed I didn’t get to explain my motives, although he still cautiously accepted me.
I’m going to attend a meeting with his whole crew on Monday. I’ve got the suit that all of his followers wear, and I’m going to use burnt cork to blacken my face and blend in. I think I’m going to make a real difference here.
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RECOVERED ENTRY 92
I sold the Ford today to a storekeeper for twelve dollars. It was in terrible condition. Tires nearly flat, smoke-coughing engine. He came out of a building with half its roof missing, no questions asked. I kept only the water bag. It had hung from the radiator cap for the last five hundred miles. The rustbucket had carried me to the edge of America. It only seemed right to leave it there, at the border of now and then.
The Rio Grande is not much of a river. I had imagined something much grander. Maybe a sense of struggle or fulfillment too. Instead, I waded across water that barely reached my knees. The current was gentle. The stones at the bottom were smooth. An old woman on the other bank watched me come up the edge. She pointed toward the church, saying something in Spanish I didn't understand. I only caught “iglesia,” which is “church.” Not very helpful. I nodded as if I had intended to go there.
Ojinaga is mostly ruins. Bullet holes in every wall and deep scars of artillery shells. I counted at least nineteen that didn’t have roofs at all. I found Pancho Villa's men, who were camped in what must have been a monastery. There were maybe two hundred of them with only three horses. They were roasting something over a fire when I found them. I sat down at the edge of their circle and they let me stay. One of them, a particularly intimidating man with a scar running from his eye to his jaw, looked up at me for a moment and then back at the fire. I took it as a welcome. He handed me a tin cup of something that burned going down my throat. Mescal. Or tequila. I could never tell the difference. The scarred man gestured to the fire and said something I didn’t understand. “Si,” I said, nodding along.
No one asked for my name. No one asked where I came from or why a sunburned “gringo” had walked into their camp carrying nothing but a water bag. Perhaps those in revolutionary armies learn to not ask too many questions. Or maybe they simply don’t care.
In the morning they were packing to leave and I simply stood up and went with them. It was as simple as that. One of the younger ones, likely no more than seventeen and with smooth cheeks and bright eyes, showed me how to roll the cornhusk cigarettes. His name was Thomas. I think they spell it as “Tomas.” Or maybe his name was Domingo. Or Sabado. I’m not entirely sure. He was patient with me even though my Spanish is nearly nonexistent. I know a grand total of perhaps fifty words. Even that is an optimistic estimate.
I have nothing but the clothes I'm wearing and twenty-three dollars. The sun has burned the skin off my nose. Everything hurts. But I noticed today that I have not thought about her in months. Not constantly, anyway. I feel like something has changed since that terrible night when Coalhouse walked down those steps with his hands raised. The image of her face no longer plagues my conscience. I don’t hear her voice. Nor her body nor her breathing cadence. Perhaps this is what I came for. To walk until the memories finally burn away.
The men sometimes sing as we march. I don't know the words, but the melodies are simple and sad. They sing about love, I think. “Amor,” if I remember correctly. One song keeps repeating a phrase that sounds like “soldadera.” I asked Tomas what it meant using vague gestures and he pointed to a woman walking with the column. I understood. The women come, and the children, too. This is both an army and a migration. We march south tomorrow. Someone said Torreon, but I'm not certain of anything anymore. I am neither certain whether it matters. Perhaps, in time, I will forget who I was before I waded across the river.
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RECOVERED ENTRY 96
Three weeks since I last wrote. Maybe four. It is hard to keep track of time. That is a good thing. Zapata keeps us moving constantly. We never stay in one place more than two nights. We often sleep in the open. I cannot remember the last time I did not wake to a scorpion in my boot.
The demonstration in the desert worked. Though, it feels like it has been months since, not weeks. I had been with Villa’s column for perhaps six weeks until we reached Mexico City for that strange carnival of revolutionary politics. I had watched Emiliano Zapata and his men arrive. They had given the city quite the fright.
I had watched Zapata himself. He had refused the president’s chair, and I knew. I knew with the same certainty as when I first heard Emma speak, when I first understood the ambitions of Coalhouse. Zapata was not Villa, whose rages were loud and theatrical, things meant to be seen. Zapata was the man who let someone else sit in the chair of power because power was not what he wanted.
When they had left the city, I followed them. I walked after them from a distance for three days before I dared to approach them directly. I asked one of his captains, “Refugio,” I think, to arrange a meeting. I was met with suspicion, of course. A “gringo” who speaks broken Spanish who randomly appeared, who claimed to have skills. Explosive skills. But he brought me to Zapata. He was sitting on a stone in the shade of a dry tree. Only after Refugio explained who I was did he regard me with those eyes. Black, intelligent, unimpressed. I told him I could make bombs.
“Yo poder… make… la bombas.” He said nothing.
So I showed him. I filled four gourds with sand and black powder I had carried from America. The whole camp had stopped to watch. I placed the gourds at the four points of the compass and blew holes in the desert ten feet wide. The sand still rained when the last echo had died. Zapata watched without expression and then nodded once. More of a dip of the chin. I could not tell if it was a nod or contemplation at that moment. Refugio told me I would work with him. He commands maybe forty men and leads raids on Federal positions.
My Spanish has improved. I can now ask for water, food, certain items. I can give call-outs like “get down,” “run,” “wait,” and “watch out.” I was taught to count to one hundred. I can tell time, give directions, and describe pain. I have learned to say “please speak louder” and “I don’t understand.” These seem to be the only words that matter here. There is no one discussing philosophy. No nonsense about Kropotkin, or the grievances of the proletariat. They, we, fight for their villages. It is simple. Tierra y libertad. Land and liberty. Tierra y libertad. Land and liberty. Emma’s abstractions could never hope to mean anything so simple yet profound.
We hit a smelter outside Cuernavaca six days ago. I wired the main supports while Refugio's men held off a patrol that stumbled onto us. The building came down exactly as I expected—the south wall first, then the roof folding inward. The Federal soldiers inside didn't have time to get out. Refugio clapped me on the shoulder and offered me his canteen. The water was lukewarm and tasted of metal, but I appreciated it anyway.
I thought I understood what we were doing at the Library. I thought I knew what justice looked like, what revolution meant. But that was theater. This is something else entirely. Far more simplistic but far more meaningful. We are not making demands. We are not negotiating. We are simply destroying everything the enemy has built, piece by piece, until there is nothing left to defend.
The zapatistas sing in the evenings. I still don't know the words but I'm learning to hum along. A boy of maybe fourteen, Carlitos, has started teaching me the guitar. My fingers are too clumsy for it. He laughs at me but not unkindly. His face implies innocent youth yet his hardened calloused hands speak of a lifetime of work.
I can still hear Emma's voice sometimes. "Why do you have to cling to someone in order to live?" No, Emma. You are wrong. People need each other. Not the way I needed Evelyn. That was desperate and doomed. But we need a sense that our lives mean something beyond our own survival. I did not find this sense with clever salon anarchists and theoretical revolutionaries. I have found it here. In the desert, with illiterate farmers who fight because they must. Because their children are starving and that the land that was stolen three decades ago is still being stolen.
I am not clinging to anyone. But I am no longer alone.
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RECOVERED ENTRY 117
Refugio says we advance tomorrow into the territory north of the hacienda. Federal troops have been moving supplies through there for two weeks. Food, ammunition, medical supplies, everything they need to continue their operations in the region. We've been watching them from the hills. They use the same road every time. It is either supreme confidence or supreme stupidity.
The plan is to take the bridge if we can. It's a small stone bridge that crosses a ravine about six miles from here. If we control it, we can cut their entire supply line. If we can't take it, we destroy it.
I have prepared eight charges. The bridge is old stone, probably fifty years old. The explosives must hit the supports at the base where the stone meets earth. The whole structure will collapse into the gorge. They'll need weeks or months to repair it. This is all I can do. This is what I am meant to do. Father would be proud. Finally, I am living up to my potential. I am useful. I am productive.
Refugio has thirty men. He has more reserves, but these are the elite. The ones who can shoot straight, stay calm under fire, and can follow orders without repetition. It should be enough. I trust them with my life. They trust me with theirs. Thirty men, eight charges, one bridge.
The ringing in my left ear has gotten worse. It started after we hit the ammunition depot near Jojutla. I was too close when the charges went off. Now it's constant. I have to ask people to repeat themselves much more often. Carlitos jokes that I am becoming an old man. He is probably right. My hands shake in the morning until I warm them by the fire. My knees ache when it rains. My arms and back are scarred from shrapnel and debris. My hair is disappearing. My sleep is disrupted at the slightest sound.
But I am still useful. I can still place charges and bring down buildings and bridges. As long as I can do that, I have a place here. Tomorrow then. We leave at first light. It is a three-hour march to the bridge. Then we wait for the supply wagons. Then we do what needs to be done.
I have done this dozens of times. Tomorrow will be no different.
Your creative project looks really cool! Love the combination of different epistolary narrative styles. Also, big props for successfully fighting the Blogger font formatting.
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