Destiny of the Republic Part 1

Destiny of the republic.

A tale of madness, medicine, and the murder of a president.

by Candice Millard.

PROLOGUE

CHOSEN

Crossing the Long Island Sound in dense fog just before midnight on the night of June 11, 1880, the pa.s.sengers and crew of the steamship Stonington Stonington found themselves wrapped in impenetrable blackness. They could feel the swell of the sea below them, and they could hear the low-slung ship plowing through the water, its enormous wooden paddle wheels churning, its engine drumming. At steady intervals, the blast of the foghorn reverberated through the darkness, but no ship returned its call. They seemed to be utterly alone. found themselves wrapped in impenetrable blackness. They could feel the swell of the sea below them, and they could hear the low-slung ship plowing through the water, its enormous wooden paddle wheels churning, its engine drumming. At steady intervals, the blast of the foghorn reverberated through the darkness, but no ship returned its call. They seemed to be utterly alone.

Although most of the pa.s.sengers had long since retired to private cabins or the bright warmth of the saloon, one man stood quietly on the deck, peering into the fog that obscured everything beyond his own pale hands. At five feet seven inches tall, with narrow shoulders, a small, sharp face, and a threadbare jacket, Charles Guiteau was an unremarkable figure. He had failed at everything he had tried, and he had tried nearly everything, from law to ministry to even a free-love commune. He had been thrown in jail. His wife had left him. His father believed him insane, and his family had tried to have him inst.i.tutionalized. In his own mind, however, Guiteau was a man of great distinction and promise, and he predicted a glorious future for himself.

Just three days earlier, immediately following the Republican Party's tumultuous presidential convention in faraway Chicago, Guiteau had decided to pack his few belongings and leave Boston, his sights set on the party's campaign headquarters in New York. In a surprise nomination, James Garfield, an eloquent congressman from Ohio, had been chosen over a field of powerful contenders, including even former president Ulysses S. Grant. Like Guiteau, Garfield had started out with very little in life, but where Guiteau had found failure and frustration, Garfield had found unparalleled success. The excitement surrounding the unexpected, charismatic candidate was palpable, and Guiteau was determined to be a part of it. found unparalleled success. The excitement surrounding the unexpected, charismatic candidate was palpable, and Guiteau was determined to be a part of it.

Absorbed in his own thoughts, and blinded by the thick fog that blanketed the sound, Guiteau did not even see the other ship until it was too late. One moment there was the soft, rhythmic splashing of the paddle wheels. In the next instant, before Guiteau's eyes, a 253-foot steamship abruptly materialized from the darkness and collided with Guiteau's ship head-on in a tremendous, soul-wrenching crash of iron and steel. As the As the Stonington Stonington recoiled from the blow and tried to pull astern, it compounded the disaster by tearing away the starboard wheelhouse and wheel of the oncoming ship-its sister steamer, the recoiled from the blow and tried to pull astern, it compounded the disaster by tearing away the starboard wheelhouse and wheel of the oncoming ship-its sister steamer, the Narragansett Narragansett, which had been headed at full speed in the opposite direction.

On board the Narragansett Narragansett, pa.s.sengers were suddenly plunged into darkness, confusion, and terror. As the ship listed steeply, the lights went out and rushing water and scalding steam poured over the decks. Several staterooms were swept away entirely, and one man, who had been asleep in an upper bunk, was thrown out of a gaping hole and into the sound. Just as the shocked pa.s.sengers, who had rushed from their rooms in nightgowns and bare feet, began to comprehend what had happened, another thunderous blast shook the Narragansett Narragansett as its boiler, which had been struck by the as its boiler, which had been struck by the Stonington Stonington, exploded. Flames licked the well-oiled decks, sending a deadly firestorm billowing through the ship.

As the pa.s.sengers of the Stonington Stonington watched in horror, the men and women of the watched in horror, the men and women of the Narragansett Narragansett, frantic to escape the fire, began to throw themselves and their children over the sides of the blazing ship into the depths of the sound. One terrified young man raised his gun and shot himself as the boat began to sink. In just minutes, the fire grew in intensity until it covered the length of the ship, from stem to stern, and illuminated the sound for miles. In just minutes, the fire grew in intensity until it covered the length of the ship, from stem to stern, and illuminated the sound for miles.

As the tragedy unfolded before him, Guiteau could hear the screams and desperate cries for help, which continued, disembodied, even after the ship burned to the waterline and then sank, plunging the sh.e.l.l-shocked witnesses, once again, into complete darkness. The frightened and ill-prepared crew of the The frightened and ill-prepared crew of the Stonington Stonington lowered lifeboats into the water and lowered lifeboats into the water and circled blindly for hours, searching for survivors by their cries and pulling them to safety by arms, legs, clothing, even the hair of their heads. Many, however, had already drowned, or had drifted beyond help, their cries fading as they were carried away by the tide. circled blindly for hours, searching for survivors by their cries and pulling them to safety by arms, legs, clothing, even the hair of their heads. Many, however, had already drowned, or had drifted beyond help, their cries fading as they were carried away by the tide.

When the Stonington Stonington finally staggered into its home port in Connecticut early on the morning of June 12, the town's stunned inhabitants were met with a scene of destruction that, in the words of one reporter, "beggar[ed] description." finally staggered into its home port in Connecticut early on the morning of June 12, the town's stunned inhabitants were met with a scene of destruction that, in the words of one reporter, "beggar[ed] description." The ship's bow had been smashed in, the timber and planking ripped away nearly to the waterline. Three pa.s.sengers of the The ship's bow had been smashed in, the timber and planking ripped away nearly to the waterline. Three pa.s.sengers of the Narragansett Narragansett who had been rescued from the sound had already died on board. Twenty-seven more had burned to death or drowned. Those who had survived collapsed on the pier, hysterical, nearly naked, their skin left in shreds by the fire. Parents searched frantically for children as crew members solemnly wrapped two bodies, that of a man and a child, in sailcloth and laid them upon rocks near the sh.o.r.e. Two weeks later another body would wash up on Fishers Island. who had been rescued from the sound had already died on board. Twenty-seven more had burned to death or drowned. Those who had survived collapsed on the pier, hysterical, nearly naked, their skin left in shreds by the fire. Parents searched frantically for children as crew members solemnly wrapped two bodies, that of a man and a child, in sailcloth and laid them upon rocks near the sh.o.r.e. Two weeks later another body would wash up on Fishers Island.

As dawn revealed the scale of the carnage, the survivors, even in the midst of their shock and despair, considered themselves extraordinarily fortunate to be alive. Guiteau, however, believed that luck had nothing to do with his survival. As he stepped off a steamship that had come to the Guiteau, however, believed that luck had nothing to do with his survival. As he stepped off a steamship that had come to the Stonington Stonington's rescue, Guiteau felt certain that he had not been spared, but rather selected-chosen by G.o.d for a task of tremendous importance. Disappearing into the crowd, he dedicated himself to what he now saw clearly as the divine mission before him.

PART ONE

PROMISE

CHAPTER 1

THE S SCIENTIFIC S SPIRIT

The life and light of a nation are inseparable.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

Even severed as it was from the rest of the body, the hand was majestic. Sixteen feet tall, with long, tapered fingers holding aloft a twenty-nine-foot torch, it sat on the banks of a small lake in Philadelphia in the summer of 1876. It was all that existed of the Statue of Liberty, and it had been shipped in pieces from France for the United States' Centennial Exhibition, a world's fair celebrating the country's first one hundred years. Ten years later, the complete figure, rising more than a hundred and fifty feet from its pedestal and with a bright skin of copper, would be installed in New York Harbor to the awe and admiration of the world. But in 1876, the Statue of Liberty, like the young country to which it would be given, was still a work in progress. A symbol of promise, perhaps, but not yet of triumph.

Across the lake from the statue, James Abram Garfield walked with his wife and six children under a flawless sky, the scent of a recent rain still hanging in the air. A tall man with broad shoulders and a warm smile, Garfield was, in many ways, the embodiment of the Centennial Exhibition's highest ideals. At just forty-four years of age, he had already defied all odds. Born into extreme poverty in a log cabin in rural Ohio, and fatherless before his second birthday, he had risen quickly through the layers of society, not with aggression or even overt ambition, but with a pa.s.sionate love of learning that would define his life. That love had brought him to Philadelphia, for the opening day of the centennial fair.

Although he was a congressman, Garfield traveled through the exhibition unaided by guards or guides of any kind. Except for his statuesque height and soldier's posture, he was indistinguishable from the hundreds of thousands of other fairgoers who swarmed the rain-soaked grounds and the eighty miles of asphalt walkways. In just a few weeks, these walkways would be transformed by the summer sun into hot, sticky, lava-like rivers, trapping shoes and small animals. But on that day they felt smooth and solid as the crowd surged through the fairgrounds, headed toward one destination above all others-Machinery Hall.

With fourteen acres of exhibits, Machinery Hall shivered with life. It pulsed and throbbed so irresistibly that the wooden plank floors vibrated underfoot. Conversations were either m.u.f.fled by a heavy humming or forced to an early and violent end by a sharp, sudden clack. Exhibits included everything from a machine that could weave a customer's name into a pair of suspenders while he waited, to an internal combustion engine that William Ford, Henry Ford's father, had traveled all the way from his farm in Dearborn, Michigan, to see.

These exhibits were finely calibrated to appeal to no man more than James Garfield. A former professor of ancient languages, literature, and mathematics who had paid for his first year of college by working as a carpenter, Garfield's interests and abilities were as deep as they were broad. In fact, so detailed was his interest in mathematics, and so acute his understanding, that he had recently written an original proof of the Pythagorean theorem during a free moment at the Capitol. In fact, so detailed was his interest in mathematics, and so acute his understanding, that he had recently written an original proof of the Pythagorean theorem during a free moment at the Capitol. The The New England Journal of Education New England Journal of Education had published the proof just the month before, transparently astonished that a member of Congress had written it. had published the proof just the month before, transparently astonished that a member of Congress had written it.

Despite Garfield's deep admiration for mathematics and the arts, however, he believed that it was science, above all other disciplines, that had achieved the greatest good. "The scientific spirit has cast out the Demons and presented us with Nature, clothed in her right mind and living under the reign of law," he wrote. "It has given us for the sorceries of the Alchemist, the beautiful laws of chemistry; for the dreams of the Astrologer, the sublime truths of astronomy; for the wild visions of Cosmogony, the monumental records of geology; for the anarchy of Diabolism, the laws of G.o.d."

After his first day at the exposition, back in the Philadelphia home he and his family had rented, Garfield sat down to write in his diary, just as he had done nearly every night of his life for the past twenty-eight years. With characteristic seriousness of purpose, he wrote that the fair would be a "great success in the way of education." In Garfield's experience, education was salvation. It had freed him from grinding poverty. It had shaped his mind, forged paths, created opportunities where once there had been none. Education, he knew, led to progress, and progress was his country's only hope of escaping its own painful past. With characteristic seriousness of purpose, he wrote that the fair would be a "great success in the way of education." In Garfield's experience, education was salvation. It had freed him from grinding poverty. It had shaped his mind, forged paths, created opportunities where once there had been none. Education, he knew, led to progress, and progress was his country's only hope of escaping its own painful past.

In 1876, the United States, still reeling from a devastating civil war and its first presidential a.s.sa.s.sination, was far from the country it hoped to become, and faced daily reminders of the hard challenges that still lay ahead. While men like Garfield strolled the aisles of Machinery Hall in Philadelphia, marveling at the greatest inventions of the industrial age, George Armstrong Custer and his entire regiment were being slaughtered in Montana by the Northern Plains Indians they had tried to force back onto reservations. As fairgoers stared in amazement at Remington's typewriter and Thomas Edison's automatic telegraph system, Wild Bill Hickok was shot to death in a saloon in Deadwood, leaving outlaws like Jesse James and Billy the Kid to terrorize the West. As middle-cla.s.s families waited patiently in line for their chance to marvel at the Statue of Liberty's hand, freed slaves throughout the country still faced each day in fear and abject poverty. As fairgoers stared in amazement at Remington's typewriter and Thomas Edison's automatic telegraph system, Wild Bill Hickok was shot to death in a saloon in Deadwood, leaving outlaws like Jesse James and Billy the Kid to terrorize the West. As middle-cla.s.s families waited patiently in line for their chance to marvel at the Statue of Liberty's hand, freed slaves throughout the country still faced each day in fear and abject poverty.

So incomplete and uncertain was the United States that, although it was a hundred years old, it did not yet have a national anthem. At the opening ceremony, the exposition's hundred-piece orchestra, with a chorus of a thousand voices, dutifully performed the anthems of the forty-nine other countries partic.i.p.ating in the fair. Only the host country had no official song with which to honor its people, and would not for another fifty-five years. With eight untamed territories and eleven states that still seethed with hatred and resentment and dreamed of secession, a national anthem seemed premature, even presumptuous.

Garfield understood as well as any man what the Civil War had accomplished, and what it had left undone. When he was still a very young man, he had hidden a runaway slave. As commander of a small regiment from Ohio, he had driven a larger Confederate force out of eastern Kentucky, helping to save for the Union a critically strategic state. In Congress, he fought for equal rights for freed slaves. He argued for a resolution that ended the practice of requiring blacks to carry a pa.s.s in the nation's capital, and he delivered a pa.s.sionate speech for black suffrage. regiment from Ohio, he had driven a larger Confederate force out of eastern Kentucky, helping to save for the Union a critically strategic state. In Congress, he fought for equal rights for freed slaves. He argued for a resolution that ended the practice of requiring blacks to carry a pa.s.s in the nation's capital, and he delivered a pa.s.sionate speech for black suffrage. Is freedom "the bare privilege of not being chained?" he asked. "If this is all, then freedom is a bitter mockery, a cruel delusion, and it may well be questioned whether slavery were not better. Let us not commit ourselves to the absurd and senseless dogma that the color of the skin shall be the basis of suffrage, the talisman of liberty." Is freedom "the bare privilege of not being chained?" he asked. "If this is all, then freedom is a bitter mockery, a cruel delusion, and it may well be questioned whether slavery were not better. Let us not commit ourselves to the absurd and senseless dogma that the color of the skin shall be the basis of suffrage, the talisman of liberty."

Garfield knew, however, that there was some suffering that no one could prevent, and whose reach no one was beyond. Throughout the centennial fair-in hall after hall, exhibit after exhibit-this suffering was unflinchingly apparent. There were rows of coffins of every variety. There were, in the words of one reporter, "instruments for the curing of diseased and deformed bodies and limbs." An entire exhibit was devoted to a scene of a mother huddled over a crib, crying over the child she had just lost.

Nearly every family Garfield knew had suffered the death of a child, and his own family was no exception. His first child, a bright-eyed little girl named Eliza, had died of diphtheria when she was just three years old. Garfield had adored her, marveling at her precociousness and nicknaming her Trot, after Elizabeth Trotwell in His first child, a bright-eyed little girl named Eliza, had died of diphtheria when she was just three years old. Garfield had adored her, marveling at her precociousness and nicknaming her Trot, after Elizabeth Trotwell in David Copperfield David Copperfield, one of his favorite books. Thirteen years had pa.s.sed since Trot's death, but for Garfield, the pain of losing her was still fresh.

Although he worried for the health of his surviving children, Garfield himself seemed uniquely out of place among the fair's somber scenes of death and disease. He had always been poor-and, even as a congressman, continued to live a simple and frugal life-but he had never been frail. On the contrary, he was the picture of health and vitality. With his quick, crisp stride, he was a striking contrast to the men and women at the fair who, rather than walk, chose to pay the exorbitant price of sixty cents an hour to be pushed through the halls in a cushioned "rolling chair" by a uniformed attendant. With his quick, crisp stride, he was a striking contrast to the men and women at the fair who, rather than walk, chose to pay the exorbitant price of sixty cents an hour to be pushed through the halls in a cushioned "rolling chair" by a uniformed attendant. In many ways, Garfield had less in common with these people-a group that included the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-than he did the man from Joplin, Missouri, who had loaded In many ways, Garfield had less in common with these people-a group that included the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-than he did the man from Joplin, Missouri, who had loaded a wheelbarrow with minerals from his home state and, over a period of three months, pushed it all the way to Philadelphia for the fair. a wheelbarrow with minerals from his home state and, over a period of three months, pushed it all the way to Philadelphia for the fair.

It was this kind of gritty determination that impressed Garfield most. He admired men who seemed not to notice even the most insurmountable of obstacles. He saw that caliber of man all around him at the centennial fair, tinkering with an engine or worrying over the strength of a blade. Among this group, eclipsed by the vast shadow of hundreds of other inventors, were two men whose ideas would not only change the world, but had the unique potential to save Garfield's life.

Next door to Machinery Hall, where Garfield spent his first day at the fair, was the Main Exhibition Building, a twenty-one-acre, gla.s.s-enclosed behemoth. Inside, at the far east end of the building, past row after row of dazzling exhibits from far-flung nations, was a small staircase that led upstairs to a quiet, easily overlooked gallery. In one corner of that gallery, bent over a rough, wooden table that held a collection of mysterious-looking bra.s.s-and-wood instruments, was a serious young Scotsman named Alexander Graham Bell. Inside, at the far east end of the building, past row after row of dazzling exhibits from far-flung nations, was a small staircase that led upstairs to a quiet, easily overlooked gallery. In one corner of that gallery, bent over a rough, wooden table that held a collection of mysterious-looking bra.s.s-and-wood instruments, was a serious young Scotsman named Alexander Graham Bell.

The invention Bell had brought with him from Boston was "a new apparatus operated by the human voice"-the telephone. He had won a patent for it just three months earlier, and he knew that the fair was his best opportunity to prove that it really worked. He had come to Philadelphia, however, with great reluctance, and with each pa.s.sing day he had only grown more convinced that he should have stayed home.

Bell's princ.i.p.al work was not inventing, but teaching the deaf. He had inherited this work from his father, but he loved it with a pa.s.sion that was all his own, and he was astonishingly good at it. Even the emperor of Brazil, on a recent break from the Centennial Exhibition, had visited Bell's cla.s.sroom in Boston. Bell's school would administer its annual exams the next day. It was the most important day of the year for his students, and not being there to help them prepare made him miserable. Bell's school would administer its annual exams the next day. It was the most important day of the year for his students, and not being there to help them prepare made him miserable.

From the moment Bell had stepped off the train, he had encountered one disaster after another. He suffered from debilitating headaches brought on by extreme heat, and Philadelphia was in the grip of a brutal heat wave. brought on by extreme heat, and Philadelphia was in the grip of a brutal heat wave. To his horror, when he examined his luggage, he discovered that some of his equipment had been lost in transit. Worse, what had arrived was damaged. To his horror, when he examined his luggage, he discovered that some of his equipment had been lost in transit. Worse, what had arrived was damaged.

When Bell had finally reached the fairgrounds and entered the Main Exhibition Building, he realized that not only was his telephone broken and incomplete, but his exhibit would be nearly impossible to find. Because of his reluctance to attend the fair, he had missed the official deadline for registering. His fiancee's father, Gardiner Greene Hubbard, who was a member of the Ma.s.sachusetts Centennial Committee and who had been urging Bell for months to enter his invention, had secured an exhibit s.p.a.ce for him at the eleventh hour, but it was arguably the least desirable location in the entire hall. Instead of being taken to the electrical exhibits, Bell had been led upstairs to the Ma.s.sachusetts educational section, his small table wedged between an exhibit of pipe organs and a collection of educational pamphlets. His invention would not even be listed in the fair's program.

Bell's only hope lay in the cl.u.s.ter of exhausted, sweat-soaked judges that wearily made its way through the Main Exhibition Building one morning, examining a seemingly endless array of inventions. For days, Bell had worked feverishly on his equipment, desperately trying to repair the damage that had been done on the journey from Boston. There was little he could do, however, to make it seem exciting. In comparison to the colossal engines and locomotives in Machinery Hall and the rows of whirring contraptions in the electrical aisles, his small, battered machines seemed hopelessly unimpressive and inconsequential.

Fearing that he would be forgotten altogether if he stayed upstairs, Bell made the long journey down to where the judges were gathered in the central hall. As the sun beat down mercilessly through the gla.s.s roof, the judges, sweltering in their stiff, formal suits, suddenly decided that they'd had enough. Unanimously, they agreed to end the day early. They would see only one more exhibit.

Standing near enough to overhear their conversation, Bell realized that he had lost his only chance. All the time, expense, and effort he had poured into the fair, all the frustration and misery, were for nothing. Even if the judges returned the following day, they would never see his invention. By then, he would be back in Boston. if the judges returned the following day, they would never see his invention. By then, he would be back in Boston.

As Bell stood in silence, watching the judges turn their backs to him and begin to walk away, he suddenly heard a familiar voice. "How do you do, Mr. Bell?" Surprised, he turned to find Emperor Dom Pedro II of Brazil, his full, white beard neatly trimmed, his deep-set eyes bright with curiosity, looking directly at him. A pa.s.sionate promoter of the sciences, Dom Pedro had asked to accompany the judges on their rounds that morning, perfectly happy to be in the tropical-like heat that reminded him of home. When he saw Bell standing in the crowd of some fifty judges and a handful of hovering inventors, he immediately recognized him as the talented teacher of the deaf whom he had met in Boston.

Eager as they were to leave, the judges could not go anywhere without Dom Pedro, who was not only the leader of a large country but, with his irrepressible energy and enthusiasm, had become the darling of the centennial fair. With the judges waiting anxiously nearby, the emperor struck up a leisurely conversation with the young teacher. When Bell told him that he had come to the fair hoping to show an invention, but would have to leave early in the morning, Dom Pedro reacted with characteristic vigor. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "Then we must have a look at it now." Taking Bell's arm in his own, he strode toward the stairs, a long line of judges shuffling resignedly behind. With the judges waiting anxiously nearby, the emperor struck up a leisurely conversation with the young teacher. When Bell told him that he had come to the fair hoping to show an invention, but would have to leave early in the morning, Dom Pedro reacted with characteristic vigor. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "Then we must have a look at it now." Taking Bell's arm in his own, he strode toward the stairs, a long line of judges shuffling resignedly behind.

After the group had crossed the vast hall and climbed to the remote gallery, Bell led them to his table, around which he had optimistically arranged a few chairs. Among the various instruments a.s.sembled was something that Bell called an "iron box receiver," a vertical metal cylinder that had a thin diaphragm in the center and had been secured to a square block of wood. Wires leading from the receiver had been strung along the gallery railing, disappearing into a small room about a hundred yards away. As the judges gathered around him, Bell explained his invention, the telephone. It was, he cautioned, but an "embryo of an idea." However, with it, he had achieved something extraordinary-the electrical transmission of the human voice. As the judges gathered around him, Bell explained his invention, the telephone. It was, he cautioned, but an "embryo of an idea." However, with it, he had achieved something extraordinary-the electrical transmission of the human voice.

With his audience's full attention now, Bell crossed the gallery to the room where the wires led. Leaning into a transmitter he had set up earlier Leaning into a transmitter he had set up earlier in the day, he slowly began to recite Hamlet's famous soliloquy. For Bell, it was a natural choice. He had known the speech by heart since he was fourteen, when his grandfather had taught it to him in Scotland. As he spoke, Shakespeare's words now traveled by wire, traversing the gallery to where the judges waited in suspense. in the day, he slowly began to recite Hamlet's famous soliloquy. For Bell, it was a natural choice. He had known the speech by heart since he was fourteen, when his grandfather had taught it to him in Scotland. As he spoke, Shakespeare's words now traveled by wire, traversing the gallery to where the judges waited in suspense.

Sitting at the table, with the iron box receiver pressed tightly to his ear, Dom Pedro heard an extraordinary sound-Bell's voice, heart-wrenchingly clear. "To be, or not to be," he said. Leaping from his chair, the emperor shouted, "I hear! I hear!" As the knot of judges watched in amazement, he turned toward the room at the far end of the gallery and raced off, "at a very un-emperor-like-gait." Moments later, Bell, who was still reciting the soliloquy, with no understanding of the effect it had had, suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of pounding feet. Looking up, he saw the emperor of Brazil charging toward him, flush with excitement.

In that moment, Bell's life was transformed. To the rest of the world, he would no longer be a teacher, or even simply an inventor, but the creator of the telephone. Even as he watched the emperor's eyes flash with joy and amazement, however, Bell knew that he would reach far beyond this one invention. His mind was too crowded, and his heart too hopeful, to stop here.

While Bell's technological innovation caught fire in an instant of understanding, on the same fairgrounds, in a building just yards away, Joseph Lister's discovery, one of the most important advances in medical history, was lightly dismissed. Standing before a crowded hall at the centennial fair's Medical Congress, the British surgeon struggled to convince his audience, a collection of the most experienced and admired physicians and surgeons in the United States, of the critical importance of antisepsis-preventing infection by destroying germs. Although the men listened politely, very few of them believed what Lister was telling them, and almost none of them seriously considered putting his theory into practice.

At a time when many well-respected scientists still scoffed at the idea of germs, Lister's time-consuming and complicated system for destroying them seemed ridiculous. Lister, however, knew that the difference between his method and the old method was nothing less than the difference between life and death. He had developed antiseptic medicine eleven years earlier, after realizing that the same microorganisms that caused wine to ferment in Louis Pasteur's experiments must also cause infection in wounds. Lister applied this theory to his own patients, creating an elaborate system of sterilization using carbolic acid, and transforming his surgical ward from the typical foul-smelling horror chamber that defined nineteenth-century hospitals to a place of daily miracles. of germs, Lister's time-consuming and complicated system for destroying them seemed ridiculous. Lister, however, knew that the difference between his method and the old method was nothing less than the difference between life and death. He had developed antiseptic medicine eleven years earlier, after realizing that the same microorganisms that caused wine to ferment in Louis Pasteur's experiments must also cause infection in wounds. Lister applied this theory to his own patients, creating an elaborate system of sterilization using carbolic acid, and transforming his surgical ward from the typical foul-smelling horror chamber that defined nineteenth-century hospitals to a place of daily miracles.

Although the results were dramatic-the death rate among Lister's surgical patients immediately plummeted-antisepsis had provoked reactions of deep skepticism, even fury. In England, Lister had been forced repeatedly to defend his theory against attacks from enraged doctors. "The whole theory of antisepsis is not only absurd," one surgeon seethed, "it is a positive injury." Another charged that Lister's "methods would be a return to the darkest days of ancient surgery."

By 1876, Lister's steady and astonishing success had silenced nearly all of his detractors at home and in Europe. The United States, however, remained inexplicably resistant. Most American doctors simply shrugged off Lister's findings, uninterested and unimpressed. Even Dr. Samuel Gross, the president of the Medical Congress and arguably the most famous surgeon in the country, regarded antisepsis as useless, even dangerous. " Even Dr. Samuel Gross, the president of the Medical Congress and arguably the most famous surgeon in the country, regarded antisepsis as useless, even dangerous. "Little, if any faith, is placed by any enlightened or experienced surgeon on this side of the Atlantic in the so-called carbolic acid treatment of Professor Lister," Gross wrote imperiously.

The medical breakthroughs that won the attention and admiration of men like Gross were those they could readily understand. All around the Medical Congress, throughout the centennial fair, were examples of this type of practical progress. There was a much-admired exhibit of artificial limbs, "The Palmer Leg and Arm," which were of particular interest in the wake of the Civil War. Dr. B. Frank Palmer himself wore an articulated leg of his own design, with impressive results. "We did not in the least suspect that he had himself been provided with one of his own artificial limbs," marveled one of the judges. Down another aisle stood a pyramid There was a much-admired exhibit of artificial limbs, "The Palmer Leg and Arm," which were of particular interest in the wake of the Civil War. Dr. B. Frank Palmer himself wore an articulated leg of his own design, with impressive results. "We did not in the least suspect that he had himself been provided with one of his own artificial limbs," marveled one of the judges. Down another aisle stood a pyramid of eight hundred ounces of pure morphine, and there were table after table of new and improved medical tools. Admiring a st.u.r.dy saw meant for amputations, one surgeon asked rhetorically, "Who has not experienced the annoyance, in the middle of an operation, of the saw breaking or becoming wedged in the bone so tightly as to be disengaged with difficulty?" of eight hundred ounces of pure morphine, and there were table after table of new and improved medical tools. Admiring a st.u.r.dy saw meant for amputations, one surgeon asked rhetorically, "Who has not experienced the annoyance, in the middle of an operation, of the saw breaking or becoming wedged in the bone so tightly as to be disengaged with difficulty?"

The dangers Lister described were very different from, and far more lethal than, broken saws and inadequate prosthetics. They could not be seen by the naked eye, and many of the doctors in the audience still did not believe they existed. Despite the prevailing skepticism about his discovery, however, Lister refused to give up. If the scientific evidence he presented was not enough, he would appeal to something more powerful than logic: vanity. He would remind these doctors who they were, and what they, as a nation, had achieved. "American surgeons are renowned throughout the world for their inventive genius, and boldness and skill in execution," he said. "It is to America that we owe anesthesia, the greatest boon ever conferred upon suffering humanity by human means." After listing several other discoveries that were the result of American intelligence and industry, Lister beseeched his audience to cast aside their egos and listen to him. He was there, he said, in the hope that they would finally accept "the truth, the value, and the practical application of the principles of Antiseptic Surgery."

For three hours, Lister did all he could to persuade his audience. He explained his process, gave examples from his own surgical studies, and met each of the doctors' criticisms, one by one. To the common complaint that antisepsis was "too much trouble," he replied simply, "It is worth some trouble to be able to seal up an amputation, an exsection, or a large wound, with the absolute certainty that no evil effects will follow."

Seated in the audience, listening to Lister, was Dr. Frank Hamilton, a highly regarded surgeon from New York who would one day, quite literally, hold James Garfield's fate in his hands. When given an opportunity to speak, Hamilton a.s.sured Lister that he would be "glad to have you convince us that your method is the best." In his own practice, however, Hamilton preferred to use methods that were quite different from antisepsis. Among them was the "'open-air treatment,' in which no dressings whatever are employed, but the wound is left open to the air, the discharges being permitted to drop into proper receptacles, or to dry upon the surface." Hamilton also highly recommended soaking dressings in warm water, and then applying them directly to open wounds. whatever are employed, but the wound is left open to the air, the discharges being permitted to drop into proper receptacles, or to dry upon the surface." Hamilton also highly recommended soaking dressings in warm water, and then applying them directly to open wounds.

A few weeks after Lister tried in vain to persuade men like Hamilton that, without antisepsis, they risked the very real danger of killing their patients, James Garfield was descending, once again, into what he knew as the "darkness of death." At his home in Washington, he watched helplessly as his youngest child, Neddie, a beautiful little boy who had contracted whooping cough soon after attending the centennial fair, died in his small bed. At his home in Washington, he watched helplessly as his youngest child, Neddie, a beautiful little boy who had contracted whooping cough soon after attending the centennial fair, died in his small bed.

After he had lost Trot, so many years earlier, Garfield had thought he could never again feel such an all-consuming sorrow. He realized now how wrong he had been. "I am trying to see through it the deep meaning and lesson of this death," he wrote. "G.o.d help me to use the heavy lesson for the good of those of us who remain." Despite his belief in the goodness of G.o.d, however, Garfield knew that death was cruel, unpredictable, and, too often, unpreventable. Perhaps even harder to accept was that the science he so deeply admired, for all its awe-inspiring potential, seemed powerless in the face of it.

Searching for a way to teach his children this hard truth, to prepare them for what inevitably lay ahead, Garfield had often turned to what he knew best-books. After dinner one evening, he pulled a copy of Shakespeare's Oth.e.l.lo Oth.e.l.lo off the shelf and began to read the tragedy aloud. " off the shelf and began to read the tragedy aloud. "The children were not pleased with the way the story came out," he admitted in his diary, but he hoped that they would come to "appreciate stories that [do not] come out well, for they are very much like a good deal of life."

CHAPTER 2

PROVIDENCE

I never meet a ragged boy in the street without feeling that I may owe him a salute, for I know not what possibilities may be b.u.t.toned up under his coat.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

James Garfield's father, Abram, had died on a spring day in 1833, just a few months after his thirty-third birthday. As he had peered out a window that day, surveying the farmland he had just saved from a raging wildfire, he had known that he would not survive the "violent cold" that had so suddenly seized him. The house he would die in was a log cabin he had built four years earlier. It consisted of one room, three small windows, and a rough, wooden plank floor. The windowpanes were made of oiled paper, and the gaps between the logs were filled with clay in a futile attempt to shut out the brutal Ohio winters. The house and the land were all his family had, and he had done everything he could to protect them from the fire. It consisted of one room, three small windows, and a rough, wooden plank floor. The windowpanes were made of oiled paper, and the gaps between the logs were filled with clay in a futile attempt to shut out the brutal Ohio winters. The house and the land were all his family had, and he had done everything he could to protect them from the fire.

Like his ancestors, who had sailed from Chester, England, to Ma.s.sachusetts in 1630, just ten years after the Mayflower Mayflower, Abram had left all he knew in search of a better life. His father had stayed in the East, on a small farm in New York, but as a very young man Abram had set his sights on the West. In 1819, he and his half brother Amos packed their bags and moved to Ohio. After several years of struggling to make a living, Abram took a job helping to build the Ohio and Erie Ca.n.a.l, as he had helped to build the Erie Ca.n.a.l when he was a teenager. In 1819, he and his half brother Amos packed their bags and moved to Ohio. After several years of struggling to make a living, Abram took a job helping to build the Ohio and Erie Ca.n.a.l, as he had helped to build the Erie Ca.n.a.l when he was a teenager.

In the early 1800s, Ohio was the American frontier. Wild and largely unmapped, it had not joined the Union until 1803, becoming the country's seventeenth state. Ohio was the first state to be created out of the Northwest Territory. Iroquois and Shawnee tribes were still scattered throughout the Ohio Valley, fiercely fighting for the little land they had left, but time was running out. They had lost their British allies after the War of 1812, and Andrew Jackson would pa.s.s the Indian Removal Act less than twenty years later, forcing them all onto reservations. unmapped, it had not joined the Union until 1803, becoming the country's seventeenth state. Ohio was the first state to be created out of the Northwest Territory. Iroquois and Shawnee tribes were still scattered throughout the Ohio Valley, fiercely fighting for the little land they had left, but time was running out. They had lost their British allies after the War of 1812, and Andrew Jackson would pa.s.s the Indian Removal Act less than twenty years later, forcing them all onto reservations.

Although land was available for two dollars an acre, ten years would pa.s.s before Abram and Amos had saved enough money for a farm. Soon after their arrival, they met and married a pair of sisters from New Hampshire named Eliza and Alpha Ballou. Soon after their arrival, they met and married a pair of sisters from New Hampshire named Eliza and Alpha Ballou. In 1829 the two couples, now with children of their own, bought a hundred acres of heavily wooded land in Cuyahoga County. They were just sixteen miles from Cleveland but two miles from the nearest road, surrounded by a vast, thick forest. It was the life they had hoped for, but it was far from easy. In 1829 the two couples, now with children of their own, bought a hundred acres of heavily wooded land in Cuyahoga County. They were just sixteen miles from Cleveland but two miles from the nearest road, surrounded by a vast, thick forest. It was the life they had hoped for, but it was far from easy.

When Abram had seen the wildfire racing toward his cabin, he had met it with equal ferocity. He worked all day, digging ditches, hacking away brush, and fighting back the roaring, choking flames. Somehow, miraculously, he had saved his farm, but his victory came at a high cost. Although he was young and strong, he was also poor and isolated. With no medical care beyond an unlicensed, itinerate doctor, he quickly succ.u.mbed to exhaustion and fever. Within days, he would die, keenly aware that he was leaving Eliza with four children to feed. Their youngest, James, not yet two years old.

There would come a time when the story of James Garfield's early life would be widely admired. Throughout the nation and around the world, his extraordinary rise from fatherlessness and abject poverty would make him the embodiment of the American dream. Garfield himself, however, refused ever to romanticize his childhood. "Let us never praise poverty," he would write to a friend, "for a child at least."

Even by the standards of the hardscrabble rural region in which he lived, Garfield was raised in desperate circ.u.mstances. His mother, left with debts she could not hope to pay after her husband's death, was forced to sell much of their land. What was left, she farmed herself with the help of her oldest son, James's eleven-year-old brother, Thomas. with debts she could not hope to pay after her husband's death, was forced to sell much of their land. What was left, she farmed herself with the help of her oldest son, James's eleven-year-old brother, Thomas. Between them, working as hard as they could, they managed to avoid giving the younger children to more prosperous families to raise, as their relatives had advised them to do. Between them, working as hard as they could, they managed to avoid giving the younger children to more prosperous families to raise, as their relatives had advised them to do. So little did they have to spare, however, that James did not have a pair of shoes until he was four years old. So little did they have to spare, however, that James did not have a pair of shoes until he was four years old.

Although Garfield understood clearly, and at times painfully, that he was poor, he had inherited from his mother an innate dignity that never failed to inspire respect. His mother was fiercely proud that she and her children had "received no aid, worked and won their living and could look any man in the face." Even as a child, Garfield walked with his shoulders squared and his head thrown back. "If I ever get through a course of study I don't expect any one will ask me what kind of a coat I wore when studying," he wrote to his mother while attending a nearby school, "and if they do I shall not be ashamed to tell them it was a ragged one."

Eliza Garfield's greatest ambition for her second son was a good education. She came from a long line of New England intellectuals, including a president of Tufts College and the founder and editor of a Boston newspaper. She came from a long line of New England intellectuals, including a president of Tufts College and the founder and editor of a Boston newspaper. She donated some of her land for a small schoolhouse so that her children, as well as her neighbors' children, could have a place to learn. Even when James turned eleven years old, the age at which his brother had begun helping the family by working on neighboring farms, she insisted that he stay home and concentrate on his education-and Thomas wholeheartedly agreed. " She donated some of her land for a small schoolhouse so that her children, as well as her neighbors' children, could have a place to learn. Even when James turned eleven years old, the age at which his brother had begun helping the family by working on neighboring farms, she insisted that he stay home and concentrate on his education-and Thomas wholeheartedly agreed. "Whatever else happens," they said, "James must go to school."

James, unfortunately, had different dreams. Although he could not swim, and admitted that he "knew almost nothing about the water except what I had read," he longed for a life at sea. As he was hundreds of miles from any ocean, the best he could do was the Erie and Ohio Ca.n.a.l, the ca.n.a.l his father had helped to build. At sixteen years of age, he left home to become a ca.n.a.l man, breaking his mother's heart and, she feared, putting an end to her hopes for him. Although he could not swim, and admitted that he "knew almost nothing about the water except what I had read," he longed for a life at sea. As he was hundreds of miles from any ocean, the best he could do was the Erie and Ohio Ca.n.a.l, the ca.n.a.l his father had helped to build. At sixteen years of age, he left home to become a ca.n.a.l man, breaking his mother's heart and, she feared, putting an end to her hopes for him.

Garfield's first job on the ca.n.a.l was as a driver, the lowliest position among a group of rough, and occasionally violent, men. As the months pa.s.sed, he became increasingly comfortable with the life he had fashioned for himself. He knew that the work he was doing, and the men he met along the way, likely made him "ripe for ruin," but he was willing to take that chance. pa.s.sed, he became increasingly comfortable with the life he had fashioned for himself. He knew that the work he was doing, and the men he met along the way, likely made him "ripe for ruin," but he was willing to take that chance.

Before he could "drink in every species of vice," however, the course of his young life took a sudden turn. As he stood alone at the bow one night, struggling with a coiled rope, he lost his balance and, before he could right himself, fell into the ca.n.a.l. He had fallen in before, more than a dozen times, but each time it had been daylight, and there had been men on the deck to pull him out.

Now it was midnight, and Garfield was certain that he would drown. He cried out for help although he knew it was useless. Everyone on the boat was fast asleep. As he searched frantically and blindly for something to save his life, his hands suddenly struck the rope that had been the cause of his fall. Gripping it tightly, he found that, with a "great struggle," he could use it to slowly pull himself up until, finally, he fell heavily onto the boat.

As he sat, dripping and scared, on the deck of the ca.n.a.l boat, Garfield wondered why he was still alive. The rope was not secured to anything on the boat. When he had pulled on it, it should have fallen off the deck, slipping to the bottom of the ca.n.a.l and leaving him to drown. "Carefully examining it, I found that just where it came over the edge of the boat it had been drawn into a crack and there knotted itself," he would later write. "I sat down in the cold of the night and in my wet clothes and contemplated the matter.... I did not believe that G.o.d had paid any attention to me on my own account but I thought He had saved me for my mother and for something greater and better than ca.n.a.ling."