Destiny of the Republic Part 11

Now that Garfield was dead, Americans' greatest fear was that Guiteau would get away with murder-not because he was innocent, but because he was insane. The insanity defense was already widely known and almost uniformly despised. Even Garfield, ten years before his own murder, had expressed deep skepticism about the plea. "All a man would need to secure immunity from murder would be to tear his hair and rave a little," he had written, "and then kill his man."

The legal standard for determining insanity-known as the M'Naghten Rule-had been established nearly forty years earlier, across the sea. The rule was named for Daniel M'Naghten, a Scottish woodworker who, believing that he was the target of a conspiracy between the pope and the British prime minister Robert Peel, had attempted to a.s.sa.s.sinate Peel. Instead, he had shot and mortally wounded Peel's private secretary, Edward Drummond. M'Naghten's lawyers had successfully argued that he was insane, and so not responsible for his actions. M'Naghten would live another twenty-two years, finally dying in an insane asylum in 1865, from "gradual failure of heart's action."

The verdict had sparked immediate outrage in England, and awakened bitter memories of the trial of Edward Oxford just three years earlier. Oxford, who had attempted to shoot Queen Victoria while she was riding in a carriage, pregnant with her first child, had also been found not guilty by reason of insanity. "We have seen the trials of Oxford and MacNaughtan [spelling variation] conducted by the ablest lawyers of the day," Queen Victoria had written in disgust to Peel after the M'Naghten ruling, "and they allow and advise the Jury to p.r.o.nounce the verdict of Not Guilty on account of Insanity,-whilst everybody is morally convinced that both malefactors were perfectly conscious and aware of what they did!" Before her eventual death in 1901, at the age of eighty-one, Queen Victoria would survive several more a.s.sa.s.sination attempts. Her husband, who had lived to witness four of them, was convinced that the would-be a.s.sa.s.sins had been encouraged by Oxford's acquittal. convinced that the would-be a.s.sa.s.sins had been encouraged by Oxford's acquittal.

The House of Lords, in agreement with the queen, decided that the country needed a clear, strict definition of criminal insanity. Less than four months after M'Naghten's trial, the judges of the British Supreme Court ruled that, in essence, the difference between a sane man and one who was insane lay in the ability to distinguish between right and wrong. A defendant, they declared, could use the insanity defense only if, "at the time of the committing of the act, the party accused was labouring under such a defect of reason, from a disease of the mind, as not to know the nature and quality of the act he was doing; or, if he did know it, that he did not know he was doing what was wrong."

The M'Naghten Rule, while quickly adopted in the United States as well as in England, did little to improve the reputation of the insanity defense. In America, it became known as the "insanity dodge," the refuge not of the mad but of the guilty. Celebrity cases only made matters worse. In America, it became known as the "insanity dodge," the refuge not of the mad but of the guilty. Celebrity cases only made matters worse. In 1859, Congressman Daniel Edgar Sickles was found not guilty by reason of temporary insanity after shooting to death Philip Barton Key, the son of Francis Scott Key, author of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Thirteen years later, Edward Stokes, the man who murdered James Fisk, Jay Gould's partner, used the same defense and spent only four years in prison. In 1859, Congressman Daniel Edgar Sickles was found not guilty by reason of temporary insanity after shooting to death Philip Barton Key, the son of Francis Scott Key, author of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Thirteen years later, Edward Stokes, the man who murdered James Fisk, Jay Gould's partner, used the same defense and spent only four years in prison.

It came as no surprise, therefore, when, on October 14, Garfield's a.s.sa.s.sin submitted his plea to Judge Walter c.o.x. "I plead not guilty to the indictment," Guiteau stated, in a plea that he had drafted himself. His first and primary defense was "Insanity, in that it was G.o.d's act and not mine. The Divine pressure on me to remove the president was so enormous that it destroyed my free agency, and therefore I am not legally responsible for my act." Although Guiteau laid blame for the shooting squarely on G.o.d's shoulders, he made it clear that his faith in divine intervention-at least when his own life was at stake-remained unshaken. "I have entire confidence in His disposition to protect me," he wrote in the plea, "and to send me forth to the world a free and innocent man."

Guiteau would follow the lead of M'Naghten, Oxford, Sickles, and Stokes, and attempt to use his insanity to save his life. Legally, he was allowed this argument, and there was nothing anyone could do to prevent it. It was clear to all involved in the case, however, that the American people would accept no verdict but guilty, no sentence but death. " it. It was clear to all involved in the case, however, that the American people would accept no verdict but guilty, no sentence but death. "Guiteau should have a fair trial. Everything that can be urged in his behalf should be patiently heard. It is the right of the meanest thing that bears a human form," one editorial argued. "But such a trial, such a hearing, in a community of intelligent beings can have but one result."

The case of the United States v. Charles J. Guiteau United States v. Charles J. Guiteau began on the morning of November 14, less than two months after Garfield's death. Guiteau's attorney was his brother-in-law, George Scoville, who had come to his rescue countless times in the past with a place to live and loans to keep him alive and out of prison. Scoville was a patent lawyer, and knew almost nothing about the criminal justice system, but he was one of the few lawyers in the country willing to represent the president's a.s.sa.s.sin. Even Scoville admitted, " began on the morning of November 14, less than two months after Garfield's death. Guiteau's attorney was his brother-in-law, George Scoville, who had come to his rescue countless times in the past with a place to live and loans to keep him alive and out of prison. Scoville was a patent lawyer, and knew almost nothing about the criminal justice system, but he was one of the few lawyers in the country willing to represent the president's a.s.sa.s.sin. Even Scoville admitted, "If I didn't think the unfortunate man was insane, I would not defend him at all."

As difficult as it was to find a competent defense attorney, it had been nearly impossible to a.s.semble a dispa.s.sionate jury. When asked if he would be able to render an impartial verdict in the trial of Guiteau, one prospective juror had replied, "I think he ought to be hung or burnt or something else.... I don't think there is any evidence in the United States to convince me any other way." It took three days of jury selection and 175 men to find 12 jurors. In the end, however, Guiteau faced a jury that was, if not unbiased, at least diverse. Deciding his fate were a machinist, two grocers, three merchants, an iron worker, a retired businessman, a restaurant manager, a cigar dealer, and two plasterers. Eleven of the men were white, and one was black. It took three days of jury selection and 175 men to find 12 jurors. In the end, however, Guiteau faced a jury that was, if not unbiased, at least diverse. Deciding his fate were a machinist, two grocers, three merchants, an iron worker, a retired businessman, a restaurant manager, a cigar dealer, and two plasterers. Eleven of the men were white, and one was black.

Before the trial began at 10:00 a.m., a crush of people gathered outside the courtroom, clutching tickets and staring at the closed doors. Deputy marshals wearing bright red badges surrounded the throng, checking the authenticity of their tickets and examining media pa.s.ses, which, "for the first time in anyone's memory," journalists were required to carry.

The courtroom itself had been renovated just for the trial. A temporary floor had been installed, and more seating added. Half the seats were reserved for lawyers, distinguished guests-a group that included even Frederick Dougla.s.s-and journalists. floor had been installed, and more seating added. Half the seats were reserved for lawyers, distinguished guests-a group that included even Frederick Dougla.s.s-and journalists. The rest were first come, first served. Those fortunate enough to find seats were so worried that they would lose them during the noon recess that they carried picnic baskets when they arrived in the morning, and had their lunch on their laps. The rest were first come, first served. Those fortunate enough to find seats were so worried that they would lose them during the noon recess that they carried picnic baskets when they arrived in the morning, and had their lunch on their laps.

Guiteau had planned to make an opening statement that day, but the judge refused to allow it. Frustrated, he turned to the long row of reporters seated behind him and handed them his statement. It was not a defense of his actions, or even an argument for insanity, but an indictment of the men who were, he argued, the president's true murderers-his doctors.

The situation, Guiteau insisted, was perfectly clear. "General Garfield died from malpractice," he wrote. "According to his own physicians, he was not fatally shot. The doctors who mistreated him ought to bear the odium of his death, and not his a.s.sailant. They ought to be indicted for murdering James A. Garfield, and not me." A few days later, Guiteau would himself announce his argument to the courtroom, interrupting a witness who was describing the scene at the train station when Garfield was shot. "I deny the killing, if your honor please," he said. "We admit the shooting."

Day after day, as the trial slowly advanced, Guiteau repeatedly tried to insert himself into the proceedings. Often, his outbursts were harsh, humiliating critiques of his brother-in-law's legal skill. "Now, don't spoil the matter on cross-examination," he shouted at Scoville at one point. "That is the way you generally do. You spoil everything by cross-examination.... You are a jacka.s.s on the question of cross-examination. I must tell you that right in public, to your face."

When he wasn't attacking his own attorney, Guiteau attempted to question witnesses, refute testimony, address the judge directly, and even make public appeals for legal and financial a.s.sistance. After learning that a fund had been established for Lucretia and her children, he made an announcement to the courtroom. "The rich men of New York gave Mrs. Garfield $200,000 or $300,000," he said. "It was a splendid thing-a n.o.ble thing. Now, I want them to give me some money."

Finally, Scoville himself asked the court to force his client to keep quiet. Judge c.o.x, determined that there not be any possible grounds for appeal, was reluctant to remove Guiteau from the courtroom. There was little he could do, therefore, beyond issuing repeated warnings and moving the defendant farther from the witness stand. Guiteau's "declarations," the judge would later complain, " appeal, was reluctant to remove Guiteau from the courtroom. There was little he could do, therefore, beyond issuing repeated warnings and moving the defendant farther from the witness stand. Guiteau's "declarations," the judge would later complain, "could not have been prevented except by resorting to the process of gagging him."

The more Guiteau spoke, the more apparent his insanity became. He was highly intelligent and surprisingly articulate, but his mind did not work like that of a sane man. "All the links in the chain are there," George Beard, a psychiatrist who would interview Guiteau on four separate occasions, explained, "but they are not joined, but rather tossed about hither and thither, singly, like quoits, each one good and strong of itself, but without relation to any other." When Guiteau speaks, Beard said, "his insanity forces itself constantly to the front, breaking in upon his eloquence."

Guiteau spent nearly a week on the stand, talking about his childhood, his years at the commune, his life as a traveling evangelist, and his motivations for shooting the president. The prosecution did everything in its power to prove that he was not insane, but simply immoral. Scoville countered by tracing the history of insanity in Guiteau's family-from an uncle who had died in an asylum to several aunts, cousins, and even Guiteau's own mother.

Before the trial had ended, thirty-six experts would testify on the subject of Guiteau's sanity. Scoville placed most of his hope in a controversial but widely admired young neurologist named Edward Spitzka, who had studied in Vienna and Leipzig and was well known for openly questioning, even attacking, the most powerful psychiatrists in the nation. Even before meeting Guiteau, Spitzka had written in a medical journal that, if the defendant, "with his hereditary history, his insane manner, his insane doc.u.ments and his insane actions were to be committed to any asylum in the land, he would be unhesitatingly admitted as a proper subject for sequestration." In the courtroom, after Spitzka testified that he had examined Guiteau and found him to be insane, Scoville asked, "Did you have any question on that subject?" Without hesitating, Spitzka replied, "Not the slightest."

Determined to drown out men like Spitzka, the prosecution brought to the stand nearly twice as many experts as the defense. The star witness for the prosecution was Dr. John Purdue Gray, the superintendent of the New York State Lunatic Asylum. Gray had spent two days interviewing Guiteau, and was convinced that his only ailment was moral depravity. " to the stand nearly twice as many experts as the defense. The star witness for the prosecution was Dr. John Purdue Gray, the superintendent of the New York State Lunatic Asylum. Gray had spent two days interviewing Guiteau, and was convinced that his only ailment was moral depravity. "A man may become profoundly depraved and degraded by mental habits and yet not be insane," he insisted. "It is only depravity."

Guiteau listened to these testimonies with avid interest. Although he had pleaded insanity, he was anxious to make clear that he had been insane only at the time of the shooting-not before, and certainly not after. Now, he argued, he was as sane as any man in the courtroom. As Gray attempted to define insanity for the jury, explaining that it was a "disease of the brain, in which there is a...change in the individual, a departure from himself," Guiteau abruptly broke in. "That is my case," he said. "I shot the President on the second of July. I would not do it again for a million dollars, with the mind I have got now."

The central question of the trial-whether or not Guiteau was insane-seemed to most Americans a waste of time. Insane or not, they wanted to see him hanged, at the very least. "Hanging is too good for you, you stinking cuss," a Union veteran had written to him. "You ought to be burned alive and let rot. You savage cannibal dog." A farmer from Maryland tried to accomplish what William Mason had failed to do. As the prison coach carried Guiteau from the courtroom back to the District Jail one day, he rode up on his horse, drew his pistol, and fired at the prisoner. Once again, the shot missed Guiteau, but left him terrified, with a singed hole in his coat. A farmer from Maryland tried to accomplish what William Mason had failed to do. As the prison coach carried Guiteau from the courtroom back to the District Jail one day, he rode up on his horse, drew his pistol, and fired at the prisoner. Once again, the shot missed Guiteau, but left him terrified, with a singed hole in his coat.

The trial, punctuated by Guiteau's constant outbursts and heightened by testimony from members of the Senate, the secretary of state, and, by letter, even President Arthur, finally ended on January 26, 1882. At 4:35 that afternoon, after more than two months of testimony, the prosecution rested. Less than an hour later, the jury returned with a verdict.

"Gentlemen of the jury," the clerk called out, his voice harsh against the perfect silence of the courtroom, "have you agreed upon a verdict?" The foreman, a man named John Hamlin, replied that they had. "What say you," asked the clerk. "Is the defendant guilty or not guilty?" "Guilty as indicted, sir," Hamlin said.

Before Hamlin had even finished speaking, the courtroom erupted in thunderous applause. So deafening were the cheers that the bailiff's shout for order could hardly be heard. When the crowd, under threat of expulsion from the courtroom, finally quieted, one voice alone rang out. "My blood be on the head of the jury, don't you forget it," Guiteau cried. "That is my answer.... G.o.d will avenge this outrage."

Even after he had been found guilty and sentenced to death, Guiteau believed that he would be set free. It was only a matter of time-and presidential influence. He had already written to Arthur several times, demanding a full pardon, but after the U.S. Supreme Court denied his appeal, he wrote again. The letter was a window into Guiteau's strained mind. "I am willing to DIE for my inspiration," he wrote, "but it will make a terrible reckoning for you and this nation. I made you...and the least you can do is to let me go." Then, suddenly switching tracks from dire threat to friendly advice, he offered what seemed to him a reasonable compromise. "But I appreciate your delicate position," he wrote, "and I am willing to stay here until January, if necessary."

Besides Guiteau himself, the only people who believed that his life might yet be spared were his brother and sister. John Guiteau, although he had long been deeply ashamed of his younger brother, and had often been bitterly angry with him, could not bear to see him die. "Whatever your impressions may be," he had written to Charles after the trial ended, "I want you to know that I feel towards you as a brother and a friend, and shall, in the short time remaining, do all I can to save your life." He was convinced that Charles was insane, and that if the American people could only be made to understand that fact, they would want to see him locked away in an asylum, not hanged. "The public have never had the facts, nor the Court," he wrote to Charles. "And they know not what they are about to do."

Finally, John also wrote to the president, seeking not a pardon, but simply a stay of execution. In his letter to Arthur, he asked only for enough time to present further evidence of his brother's insanity. He hoped that the president would give him " the president would give him "an audience before a decision is reached, that I may make a brief statement of my brother's unfortunate life, which will explain much of what now appears to his disadvantage."

Arthur refused to see John, knowing that, if he gave Guiteau's brother even a few moments of his time, there would be a public outcry. He did, however, agree to meet with the psychiatrist George Beard, and with Miss A. A. Chevaillier, an advocate for the insane. After listening to them for twenty minutes, Arthur forwarded their appeal to his attorney general, Benjamin Harris Brewster. Brewster replied almost immediately, advising Arthur to reject the appeal. Two days later, the newspapers reported that, after careful consideration, the president and his cabinet had come to the conclusion that there were "no grounds to justify Executive interference with the verdict of the jury and the action of the courts."

Frances Scoville, who had for most of her life been more of a mother to Charles than a sister, also tried desperately to stay the hand of the court. She directed her appeal, however, not to Garfield's successor, but to his widow. In a letter to Lucretia just two weeks after the verdict was read, she openly begged for her brother's life.

Dear Madam:Humbly I address you, trusting you will not turn a deaf ear even upon despised Guiteau's sister.All these weary months I have patiently waited until the time should come for me to speak: when, after the verdict, which I believed would be "Not guilty by reason of insanity," I could say without shamefacedness, "My heart bleeds for you and the sainted dead."...I have counted the hours for the time when I could boldly say to you, as I have said from the moment when the terrible news was brought me on that dark day in July: "He was brain sick, deluded, crazy; forgive him, even as Christ shall forgive us all...."In Heaven we know, as we are known. The sainted Garfield knows now that he "had to do it," and I feel sure if he could speak he would say, "Forgive that deluded man, even as I forgive him; safely keep him from doing any more harm, but forgive."

Lucretia never replied. When she could wait no longer, Frances packed a bag, took a train from Chicago to Cleveland, Ohio, walked up to the home where Garfield's widow was living, and knocked on the door. Lucretia and Mollie were down the street, and so Frances, who had traveled under the name of Mrs. Smith, was asked to wait in the library. When Lucretia returned home to find that Charles Guiteau's sister was waiting for her, she went up to her room and sent down word that she would not see her. When she could wait no longer, Frances packed a bag, took a train from Chicago to Cleveland, Ohio, walked up to the home where Garfield's widow was living, and knocked on the door. Lucretia and Mollie were down the street, and so Frances, who had traveled under the name of Mrs. Smith, was asked to wait in the library. When Lucretia returned home to find that Charles Guiteau's sister was waiting for her, she went up to her room and sent down word that she would not see her.

Mollie was sitting on the front steps when Frances left. When she later learned who the strange visitor had been, she felt nothing but fury and outrage that she had "dared to come." For her father's a.s.sa.s.sin, Mollie would write bitterly in her diary, "nothing could be too awful... & my heart is like stone stone toward him." toward him."

By the day of his execution, even Guiteau had accepted that there would be no stay, no pardon, no fearsome act of G.o.d to save his life. When John Crocker, the warden of the District Jail, appeared at his cell door just after twelve noon on June 30, 1882, Guiteau was sitting on his cot, wearing a black suit that he had paid a prison worker to wash and press the day before, and shoes that he had sent to be polished that morning. Beside him was Reverend Hicks, a Washington minister who had visited him every day for nearly a month, and with whom Guiteau had become so close he had made him the executor of his will. "I'm fully resigned," Guiteau had told Hicks the night before, when he had woken just before midnight and asked to see the minister. "G.o.d has smoothed over the road to glory which I will travel tomorrow."

Now, as he looked up and saw Crocker standing before him, Guiteau's face whitened, but he quickly stood and, holding Hicks's hand, listened quietly as the warden began to speak. "With the events of the past year crowding around you now, as the hours of life enfold around you," Crocker said, "I find myself called upon to perform a last solemn duty in connection with the death of our President." Then, his voice trembling slightly, he read aloud the warrant for Guiteau's death.

After Crocker had finished, Guiteau asked of him a final favor. He wanted to give the executioner's signal, to choose for himself the moment of his death. He had written a prayer that morning, he said, and planned to read it on the scaffold. When he was ready, he would drop the prayer. Crocker agreed. wanted to give the executioner's signal, to choose for himself the moment of his death. He had written a prayer that morning, he said, and planned to read it on the scaffold. When he was ready, he would drop the prayer. Crocker agreed.

A few minutes later, Hicks, Crocker, and a small contingent, which included several guards as well as the executioner, followed Guiteau as he was led from his cell to the prison's northeast corridor, where a scaffold had been erected. As they pa.s.sed a window, Guiteau stopped to look out on a bright summer day, green hills swelling under a blue sky. He paused at the window for just a moment, and then, without being asked, turned away and walked on.

Finally, the procession came to a set of stairs that led down to a narrow courtyard, at the far end of which sat the scaffold. The courtyard was flanked on the east by the jail's outer wall, and on the west by tiers of cells rising sixty feet to the ceiling. The cells had been emptied, and the tall windows on the eastern wall had been covered by heavy curtains.

Twenty thousand people had requested tickets to the execution. Two hundred and fifty had been issued. More than a thousand people stood outside, waiting for the announcement of Guiteau's death, while those who had seats inside watched in silence as he made his way toward the scaffold, his footsteps echoing on the brick floor. As he ascended the steps of the scaffold, struggling a little because his arms were tied tightly behind his back, Guiteau tripped on the first step. Smiling, he turned to Hicks and said, "I stubbed my toe going to the gallows."

When they had all a.s.sembled on the scaffold, Hicks, who was visibly shaken, spoke first, giving a brief supplication. Then he held a Bible before Guiteau, who proceeded to read fourteen verses from Matthew 10, beginning with the words "And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul." After he had finished, Guiteau looked out at the silent, stone-faced crowd and announced that he would now read a prayer of his own composition.

He began by paraphrasing Matthew 18:3. "Except ye become as a little child," he said, "ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven." Then, in a falsetto meant to evoke the pleadings of a child, he began to read "Simplicity."

I am going to the Lordy, I am so glad.I am going to the Lordy, I am so glad.I am going to the Lordy,Glory hallelujah! Glory hallelujah!I am going to the Lordy!

The poem continued for four more stanzas. Guiteau's voice, although high, remained strong until the final line. "Glory hallelujah! Glory hallelujah!" he said, his voice finally breaking. "I am with the Lord."

When Guiteau had finished, Hicks stepped forward once again to give the benediction. "G.o.d the Father be with thee," he said, "and give thee peace evermore." Nothing more was said as Guiteau's legs were bound together, a noose looped around his neck and carefully adjusted, and a heavy black hood placed over his head. He stood with his shoulders pulled back, his head held high.

"Glory, glory, glory," he called out, and then, opening his hand, he let the prayer fall.

EPILOGUE

FOREVER AND F FOREVER M MORE

There is nothing in all the earth that you and I can do for the Dead.

They are past our help and past our praise. We can add to them no glory, we can give to them no immortality. They do not need us, but forever and forever more we need them.

JAMES A. GARFIELD, AUGUST 1880

The death of Charles Guiteau, which was greeted by a triumphant shout that echoed through the courtyard and was picked up and carried by the crowd pressed against the prison walls, accomplished nothing. It did not prevent future a.s.sa.s.sinations, brought no solace to a heartbroken nation, no comfort to Lucretia or her children, nor even lasting satisfaction to those who had screamed for vengeance.

After the doors were opened and the throng was allowed to parade past Guiteau's body, while his brother silently fanned flies from his face, he was buried in the prison courtyard. As the casket was being covered with dirt, John Guiteau did not say a word or shed a tear. Before he left, however, he bent over the grave and placed a small clutch of white flowers at its head.

A few days later, Guiteau's body was quietly exhumed and taken to the Army Medical Museum, where Dr. Lamb, the same man who had performed Garfield's autopsy, studied it for signs of insanity. Guiteau's brain was removed, divided into small sections, and sent to psychiatrists across the country. Besides a malaria-infected spleen that was twice the normal size, however, the scientists found nothing notable in the remains of Charles Guiteau.

Today, two sections of Guiteau's spleen, parts of his skeleton-including his ribs, left hand, and left foot-and a gla.s.s jar containing the pieces of his brain, which were eventually returned to Washington, remain in the Army Medical Museum, now known as the National Museum of Health and Medicine. These specimens are kept in a large metal cabinet with long, deep drawers. The drawer just below Guiteau's holds the vertebrae of another presidential a.s.sa.s.sin-John Wilkes Booth-as well as a six-inch section of Garfield's spine, which had served as an exhibit at Guiteau's trial. A red, plastic rod rests in a hole in the k.n.o.bby, yellowed bone, indicating the path of the bullet.

Even as they mourned the death of their president, Americans understood that, as time pa.s.sed, Garfield would begin to fade from memory. "His ultimate place in history will be far less exalted than that which he now holds in popular estimation," the New York Times New York Times warned its readers. More painful even than the realization that his brief presidency would be forgotten was the thought that future generations would never know the man he had been. A few years after Garfield's death, a reporter, gazing at a formal portrait of him that hung in the White House, wrote, " warned its readers. More painful even than the realization that his brief presidency would be forgotten was the thought that future generations would never know the man he had been. A few years after Garfield's death, a reporter, gazing at a formal portrait of him that hung in the White House, wrote, "I fear coming generations of visitors who pa.s.s through this grand corridor will see nothing in the stern, sad face of Garfield to remind them that here was a man who loved to play croquet and romp with his boys upon his lawn at Mentor, who read Tennyson and Longfellow at fifty with as much enthusiastic pleasure as at twenty, who walked at evening with his arm around the neck of a friend in affectionate conversation, and whose sweet, sunny, loving nature not even twenty years of political strife could warp."

What has survived of Garfield, however, is far more powerful than a portrait, a statue, or even the fragment of his spine that tells the tragic story of his a.s.sa.s.sination. The horror and senselessness of his death, and the wasted promise of his life, brought tremendous change to the country he loved-change that, had it come earlier, almost certainly would have spared his life.

Garfield's long illness and painful death brought the country together in a way that, even the day before the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, had seemed to most Americans impossible. " in a way that, even the day before the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, had seemed to most Americans impossible. "Garfield does not belong to the North alone," read a letter that was written by a southerner to Lucretia soon after the shooting, and printed in papers across the country. "From this common vigil and prayer and sympathy in the travail of this hour there shall be a new birth of the Nation." That prediction was realized the day Garfield's death was announced, when his countrymen mourned not as northerners or southerners, but as Americans. "This morning from the depth of their grief-stricken hearts all Americans can and will thank G.o.d that there is no North, no South, no East, no West," a minister said from his pulpit. "Bound together in one common sorrow, binding in its vastness, we are one and indissoluble."

Out of this common sorrow grew a fierce resolve to prevent such a tragedy from ever happening again. Americans did not believe, however, that Garfield had been a.s.sa.s.sinated because he had walked into the train station, just as he had traveled everywhere since the day of his election, wholly unprotected. Even after losing two presidents to a.s.sa.s.sins, the idea of surrounding them with guards, and so distancing them from the people they served, still seemed too imperial, too un-American. In fact, Secret Service agents would not be officially a.s.signed to protect the president until after William McKinley was shot in Buffalo, New York, on September 6, 1901. In fact, Secret Service agents would not be officially a.s.signed to protect the president until after William McKinley was shot in Buffalo, New York, on September 6, 1901. The day McKinley was shot-he would die from his wounds eight days later-Robert Todd Lincoln was once again standing with the president, thus earning the dubious distinction of being the only man to be present at three of our nation's four presidential a.s.sa.s.sinations. The day McKinley was shot-he would die from his wounds eight days later-Robert Todd Lincoln was once again standing with the president, thus earning the dubious distinction of being the only man to be present at three of our nation's four presidential a.s.sa.s.sinations.

To Americans in 1881, the princ.i.p.al danger their presidents faced was not physical attack but political corruption. With a determination that shocked even the most senior politicians, they turned their wrath on the spoils system, the political practice that had made Garfield the target of the delusional ambitions of a man like Guiteau. "We do not think we have taken up a newspaper during the last ten days which has not in some manner made the crime the product of 'the spoils system,'" an article in the Nation Nation had read soon after the shooting. "There has hardly been an allusion to it in the pulpit which has not pointed to the spoils system as the had read soon after the shooting. "There has hardly been an allusion to it in the pulpit which has not pointed to the spoils system as the fons et origo mali fons et origo mali. In fact, the crime seems to have acted on public opinion very like a spark on a powder-magazine. It has fallen on a ma.s.s of popular indignation all ready to explode." With Garfield's death, the cries of indignation reached such a fevered pitch that they could no longer be ignored. opinion very like a spark on a powder-magazine. It has fallen on a ma.s.s of popular indignation all ready to explode." With Garfield's death, the cries of indignation reached such a fevered pitch that they could no longer be ignored.

Finally, civil service reform would find its most powerful advocate in the most unlikely of men-Chester Arthur. No man in the country owed more to the spoils system-or to its most powerful advocate, Roscoe Conkling-than Arthur. Since Garfield's death, however, it had become strikingly apparent that Arthur was no longer the man Conkling had made. "He isn't 'Chet Arthur' any more," one of Conkling's men mournfully said after he had taken office. "He's the President."

In his first official address as president, Arthur called for civil service reform. Just one year later, he signed the Pendleton Civil Service Act. This act, named for the Ohio Senator who sponsored it, transformed government appointments from what men like Conkling and Guiteau believed them to be-gifts given at the pleasure of powerful officials to those who had been most useful to them-into positions won on the basis of merit. Pendleton had introduced the bill two years earlier, but Congress had ignored it. It took Garfield's a.s.sa.s.sination, the resounding defeat in 1882 of several congressmen who had publicly opposed reform, and President Arthur's support to finally make it law.

Conkling learned this too, when he visited Arthur in the White House soon after his inauguration. Now that Arthur was president, Conkling expected his protege to redeem his reputation, and avenge his humiliating defeat at Garfield's hands. He demanded that Arthur strip William Robertson of the collectorship of the New York Customs House, the appointment that had led to his disastrous decision to resign his Senate seat, and he expected to be made secretary of state. Blaine had resigned in December, writing to a friend that Garfield's death was still a "fresh grief to me," and Conkling relished the idea of taking up the powerful position from which his old enemy had limped away.

Arthur, however, to Conkling's amazement, not only refused to do his bidding, but was offended by the a.s.sumption that he would. Conkling's demands, he said angrily, were "outrageous." Conkling, realizing that he was suddenly powerless to control a man who had for years been his most loyal minion, stormed out of the room, sick with rage and "swearing that all of his friends have turned traitor." Even more than the loss of his Senate seat, this betrayal was, for Conkling, a staggering blow. " loyal minion, stormed out of the room, sick with rage and "swearing that all of his friends have turned traitor." Even more than the loss of his Senate seat, this betrayal was, for Conkling, a staggering blow. "When I saw him afterwards afterwards," his mistress, Kate Sprague, would later write to Arthur, "& saw how he was suffering how he was suffering, I urged his quitting Washington without delay. Friends who have seen him within a day or two, report him as very ill."

Arthur had, in part, found the strength to free himself from Conkling's grasp in the bold letters of his mysterious friend, Julia Sand. So much did he admire her strong, intelligent advice that he finally decided that he must meet her. After dinner on August 20, 1882, a highly polished carriage pulled up to the front door of number 46 East Seventy-Fourth Street, the house where Sand lived with her brother. Sand was inside, stretched out on the sofa, having "disdained roast beef and scorned peach-pie," when she suddenly heard a man talking to her brother in the front parlor. She was just "wondering who that gentle-voiced Episcopal minister...might be" when President Arthur walked into the room. Arthur would stay for nearly an hour, pleased to finally have a face-to-face discussion with one of his most trusted advisers.

Although Arthur would go on to become a respected leader, his presidency marked by earnest effort and honest, if modest, achievement, his political career would end with his first term. In 1884, the Republican Party chose for its presidential candidate not the man who had inherited the White House, but the one who had fought longest and hardest to occupy it-James G. Blaine. Blaine, although he had promised Garfield he would never again seek the presidency, could not resist a final chance to hold the office he had hungered for most of his life. So desperately did he want to be president that, after he won the nomination, he even had his men approach Conkling, in the hope that the former senator might set aside his hatred for him to help secure the election for his party. "Gentlemen, you have been misinformed," Conkling coolly replied. "I have given up criminal law." Soon after, Blaine lost the election to Grover Cleveland, who became the first Democratic president to be elected since the Civil War.

When Arthur left the White House, after having meticulously and beautifully renovated it, he was almost unrecognizable as the man who had been Garfield's running mate and vice president. "No man ever entered the Presidency so profoundly and widely distrusted," the well-known journalist Alexander McClure wrote, "and no one ever retired...more generally respected." It was not until after Arthur had moved back to New York City that it became widely known that he was suffering from Bright's disease, an excruciatingly painful and, at that time, fatal kidney disease. He died two years later, at the age of fifty-six. beautifully renovated it, he was almost unrecognizable as the man who had been Garfield's running mate and vice president. "No man ever entered the Presidency so profoundly and widely distrusted," the well-known journalist Alexander McClure wrote, "and no one ever retired...more generally respected." It was not until after Arthur had moved back to New York City that it became widely known that he was suffering from Bright's disease, an excruciatingly painful and, at that time, fatal kidney disease. He died two years later, at the age of fifty-six.

Although he attended Arthur's funeral, Conkling never forgave him. For years after their falling-out, he nursed a bitter grudge, jeeringly referring to Arthur as "His Accidency" and taking pleasure in refusing an appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court after Arthur had risked his reputation nominating him. After Garfield's death and Arthur's betrayal, Conkling bitterly turned his back on public life. "How can I speak into a grave?" he railed. "How can I do battle with a shroud? Silence is a duty and a doom!"

Like his life, Conkling's death, which came just two years after Arthur's, was a pitched battle for control. Early in the spring of 1888, over a period of little more than two days, New York City was buried under twenty-two inches of snow, more than twice as much snow as it had seen all winter. The wind howled at forty-five miles per hour, with gusts nearly twice as fast, and the city was littered with towering snow drifts, some as high as fifty feet. Before it was over, four hundred people along the northeastern coast would die-two hundred in New York City alone.

On March 11, while most New Yorkers stayed home, or huddled in bars or train stations-three hundred people slept in Grand Central Terminal-Conkling insisted on going to work. Then, as the storm steadily worsened, he refused a hack driver's offer to drive him for fifty dollars, and insisted on walking home. It took even Conkling, who was a famously vigorous walker, three hours to walk the three miles from his office to the New York Club at Broadway and Twenty-first Street. Moments after he walked in the door, he fell facedown onto the entryway floor. "He didn't crumble, he didn't collapse," his biographer would write. "He fell full length. For he was that kind of man."

Conkling survived that night, even returned to work, but on April 4 he fell ill again. For nearly two weeks, he fought to gain the upper hand, falling in and out of a feverish delirium. Twelve years earlier, while suffering from a severe case of malaria, Conkling had told a friend through clenched teeth, "I am not not going to die." going to die." Now, he paced the floor of his room, fighting off those who tried to help him as his temperature soared. The battle lasted until two o'clock on the morning of April 17, when, more than a month after he had walked through one of the deadliest snowstorms in New York history, Conkling died from pulmonary edema. Now, he paced the floor of his room, fighting off those who tried to help him as his temperature soared. The battle lasted until two o'clock on the morning of April 17, when, more than a month after he had walked through one of the deadliest snowstorms in New York history, Conkling died from pulmonary edema.

Although there were many deaths in the late nineteenth century that even the most skilled physicians had no ability to prevent, Garfield's was not one of them. In fact, following his autopsy, it became immediately and painfully apparent that, far from preventing or even delaying the president's death, his doctors very likely caused it.

Bliss had a few loyal defenders, but as a whole, the international medical community forcefully condemned the decisions he had made and the actions he had taken, particularly the repeated, unsterilized probing of the president's wound. Just six months after Garfield's death, The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal printed a lecture by the renowned German surgeon Friedrich Esmarch. " printed a lecture by the renowned German surgeon Friedrich Esmarch. "It seems that the attending physicians were under the pressure of the public opinion that they were doing far too little," Esmarch had said. "But according to my opinion they have not done too little but too much."

American physicians were less gentle in their a.s.sessment. Bliss had done "more to cast distrust upon American surgery than any time heretofore known to our medical history," one doctor wrote. Young surgeons, especially, were scornfully critical of Bliss's care. "None of the injuries inflicted by the a.s.sa.s.sin's bullet were necessarily fatal," wrote Arpad Gerster, a thirty-three-year-old New York surgeon who had recently been in Europe, studying the "Listerian method of wound treatment," and would write the first American surgical textbook based on that method. To the physicians of his generation, Gerster continued, Garfield's death proved with certainty that, as the poet Thomas Gray had written more than a century earlier, " physicians of his generation, Gerster continued, Garfield's death proved with certainty that, as the poet Thomas Gray had written more than a century earlier, "ignorance is Bliss."

Bliss, however, refused to be cowed. Garfield, he said, had died not from a ma.s.sive blood infection, but as the result of a broken backbone. He insisted, moreover, that the care he had given the president had been not only adequate, but exemplary. In a doc.u.ment t.i.tled "Statement of the Services Rendered," Bliss and the few surgeons he had allowed to work with him argued that "he should receive, as he merits, the sympathy and goodwill (as well as the lasting confidence) of every patriotic citizen for the great skill, unequalled devotion and labor performed in this notable case, which...secured to the distinguished patient the perfection of surgical management."

To the astonishment of the members of Congress, Bliss confidently presented them with a bill for $25,000-more than half a million dollars in today's currency. While caring for the president, Bliss said, he had lost twenty-three pounds, and his health was "so greatly impaired as to render him entirely unable to recover or attend to his professional duties." Congress agreed to pay Bliss $6,500, and not a penny more. Bliss, outraged, refused to accept it, bitterly complaining that it was "notoriously inadequate as a just compensation." Seven years later, Bliss would die quietly at his home following a stroke, having never recovered his health, his practice, or his reputation. Seven years later, Bliss would die quietly at his home following a stroke, having never recovered his health, his practice, or his reputation.

The day after her husband's funeral, Lucretia Garfield returned home to Mentor. At first, even surrounded by family and friends-her children, her mother-in-law, Rockwell and his family, and Swaim and his wife had all gone with her-the house felt achingly empty. "Now that Papa has gone," James, her second son, wrote that night, "our home will be desolate." For Lucretia, the farmhouse had always been filled with her husband's great, booming laughter, or with the happy antic.i.p.ation of his return. "Had it not been that her children needed her more than at any time in their lives," Mollie would write of her mother years later, "life would have meant very little to her." time in their lives," Mollie would write of her mother years later, "life would have meant very little to her."

Lucretia, however, would not surrender to grief. One of the few outward concessions she would make to a life of mourning was her stationery, which, from the day of James's death until her own, would be trimmed in black. The letters she wrote, however, were strong and fearless-most often in the protection either of her children's future, or her husband's memory. She had become, in the words of Garfield's mother, James's "armed defender."

Although it was a role that Lucretia did not enjoy, she was determined to do it well. She spent countless hours correcting articles about James, keeping private letters out of books and newspapers, and trying to discourage eager but talentless portraitists. She informed one painter that his portrait of Garfield was "not very good" and that she hoped he would not let anyone else see "such an imperfect representation."

Lucretia's first concern, however, was for her husband's papers. She asked Joseph Stanley Brown for his help in organizing them, and she used some of the money from the fund that had been established for her to build an addition to the farmhouse. She asked Joseph Stanley Brown for his help in organizing them, and she used some of the money from the fund that had been established for her to build an addition to the farmhouse. The second floor of this wing was made into a library, which would become the nation's first presidential library. The second floor of this wing was made into a library, which would become the nation's first presidential library.

Within the library, Lucretia installed a fireproof vault. Today, that vault still holds the wreath that Queen Victoria sent upon Garfield's death. Among the first items Lucretia placed in it, however, were the letters that she and James had written to each other over twenty-two years of marriage. She included all that she had, even the most painful. To one small bundle of letters, she attached a note. "These are the last letters and telegrams received from My Darling," she wrote, "during the five days I remained at Elberon previous to the fearful tragedy of July 2nd, 1881."

The most precious product of her marriage to James, their children, would, under her firm guidance, grow up to live full and useful lives, lives that would have made their father exceedingly proud. Their oldest son, Harry, would become a lawyer, a professor of government at Princeton, and, like his father, a university president-of Williams College, Garfield's alma mater. James, also a lawyer, would become Theodore Roosevelt's secretary of the interior in 1907. Of James, Roosevelt would write, " alma mater. James, also a lawyer, would become Theodore Roosevelt's secretary of the interior in 1907. Of James, Roosevelt would write, "He has such poise and sanity-he is so fearless, and yet possesses such common sense, that he is a real support to me." Irvin would become a lawyer as well, and Abe, the youngest, an architect. All of Garfield's sons, no matter where they settled, remained close to their mother, often visiting her and the family farm that had shaped their boyhoods.

Perhaps more than her brothers, Mollie would struggle to accept the loss of their father. "Sometimes I feel that G.o.d couldn't have known how we all loved & needed him, here with us," she wrote in her diary two months after his death. "I don't believe I shall ever learn to say 'Thy will be done' about that." The holidays were particularly painful, when she kept expecting to hear the little song, "Ring out wild bells," that her father used to sing, "to a tune he made himself." "Oh! me!" she wrote, "How I miss my darling father."

In the end, Mollie would find comfort and strength in an emotion even more powerful than grief-love. Little more than a year after her father's death, Mollie, now sixteen, wrote in her diary not a lament, but a confession. She had fallen in love with the young man who had been like a son to her father-Joseph Stanley Brown. "I believe I am in love," she wrote. "I don't believe I will ever in my life love any man as I do Mr. Brown-and it can't be merely like. For I like like Bentley, Don, and Gaillard Hunt. And it isn't infatuation, for when I first knew Mr. Brown I didn't like him at all. No, I'm sure it is nothing but honest & true love." Bentley, Don, and Gaillard Hunt. And it isn't infatuation, for when I first knew Mr. Brown I didn't like him at all. No, I'm sure it is nothing but honest & true love."

Brown had turned down Arthur's request to stay on in the White House as the president's private secretary. He wished, he said, to complete the work he had begun. When he had finished that work-organizing Garfield's papers and preparing them for binding-he left Mentor for New Haven, Connecticut, where he attended Yale's Sheffield Scientific School.

Little more than two years later, Brown returned to Ohio, a college-educated man. When Mollie arrived home after a trip to England with her mother, he was waiting for her at the dock, with a ring in his pocket. The diamond was, Mollie would later tell her daughter, "a small stone, but a very very good one." good one." Three months later, Mollie and Joseph were married, in a double wedding with Harry Garfield and his fiancee, Belle Hartford Three months later, Mollie and Joseph were married, in a double wedding with Harry Garfield and his fiancee, Belle Hartford Mason. The wedding took place before the large bay window of the library that Lucretia had built for James. Mason. The wedding took place before the large bay window of the library that Lucretia had built for James.

After Garfield's death, Alexander Graham Bell stayed on in Washington, still convinced that his induction balance would save lives. The reason for its failure remained a frustrating and demoralizing mystery to Bell until the day Garfield's autopsy results were announced. "It is now rendered quite certain why it was that the result of the experiment with the Induction Balance was 'not satisfactory,' as I stated in my report," he wrote soon after to Mabel, in a letter filled with as much anger as sorrow. "For the bullet was not in any part of the area explored."

The realization that, while he had carefully searched Garfield's right side for the bullet, it had been lying on the left, was sickening to Bell. "This is most mortifying to me and I can hardly bear to think of it," he confessed to Mabel. "I feel that now the finger of scorn will be pointed at the Induction Balance and at me-and all the hard work I have gone through-seems thrown away." More painful to him than the damage to his reputation was the thought that his invention would be dismissed as useless, or even dangerous. "I feel that I have really accomplished a great work-and have devised an apparatus that will be of inestimable use in surgery," he wrote, "but this mistake will re-act against its introduction. The patients I am anxious to benefit would hardly be willing to risk an operation...after what has occurred."

As dejected as Bell was, however, he could not give up on his invention. On October 7, less than a month after Garfield's death, he again tested the induction balance, this time on several patients of Dr. Hamilton, who had been one of Garfield's surgeons. The tests were an unqualified success-the first time the invention had found a bullet "the position of which was previously unknown"-and they left Bell even more convinced that, had he been permitted to search both sides of Garfield's body, he would have found Guiteau's bullet.