Destiny of the Republic Part 2

Finally, as the crowd threatened to crush Garfield, his friends decided that it was time for him to make his escape. Simply getting out the door, however, was much more difficult than they had antic.i.p.ated. As crowded as the hall was, the sidewalk outside was even worse. They managed to find a carriage and step inside, but the throng was not about to let Garfield go that easily. "As Garfield entered the carriage in company with [Ohio] Gov. Foster," a reporter wrote, "the crowd surged around in a state of intense enthusiasm, and shouted: 'Take off the horses; we will pull the carriage.' The driver, who at the time was not aware whom he was carrying, whipped up to get away from the men, who had already commenced to unfasten the harness. He cleared the s.p.a.ce several feet, but was overhauled again, and the dazed driver, now thoroughly frightened, applied his whip with renewed energy, and, clear[ed] the crowd." whipped up to get away from the men, who had already commenced to unfasten the harness. He cleared the s.p.a.ce several feet, but was overhauled again, and the dazed driver, now thoroughly frightened, applied his whip with renewed energy, and, clear[ed] the crowd."

Violently bounced along the brick streets by the nervous horses and terrified driver, Garfield sat in silence, a "grave and thoughtful expression" on his face. He would not talk about the nomination, or even respond to the congratulations offered by the men seated next to him. "He has not recovered from his surprise yet," one man said. When the carriage pulled into the Grand Pacific Hotel, where Garfield and most of the Republicans had been staying, everyone in the carriage could see the new york solid for grant banner still waving from its roof. When the carriage pulled into the Grand Pacific Hotel, where Garfield and most of the Republicans had been staying, everyone in the carriage could see the new york solid for grant banner still waving from its roof.

Garfield quickly made his way to his room, although he knew that if it had offered no refuge in the past, it certainly would not now. The small room in which, just the night before, he had struggled to sleep as he shared his three-quarter-size bed with a stranger, was already filled with six hundred telegrams and seemingly as many people. As men talked excitedly all around him, Garfield, "pale as death," sat down in a chair and stared at the wall, absentmindedly holding a GARFIELD FOR PRESIDENT GARFIELD FOR PRESIDENT badge that someone had thrust into his hands. badge that someone had thrust into his hands.

CHAPTER 4

G.o.d'S M MINUTE M MAN

Theologians in all ages have looked out admiringly upon the material universe and...demonstrated the power, wisdom, and goodness of G.o.d; but we know of no one who has demonstrated the same attributes from the history of the human race.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

Four days after the Republican convention, and a day after he had stepped aboard the ill-fated Stonington Stonington, Charles Guiteau arrived in New York. While the other survivors of the deadly steamship collision in Long Island Sound huddled with family and friends, wondering at the twist of fate that had spared their lives, Guiteau walked through the city alone, unburdened by guilt or doubt. To his mind, which had long ago descended into delusion and madness, the tragedy was simply further proof that he was one of G.o.d's chosen few.

From an early age, Guiteau had been confident of his importance in the eyes of G.o.d. Motherless by the time he was seven years old, he had been raised by a zealously religious father, a man so certain of his relationship with G.o.d that he believed he would never die. "My mother was dead and my father was a father and a mother to me," Guiteau said, "and I drank in this fanaticism from him for years. He used to talk it day after day, and dream over it, and sleep over it." Charles's own fanaticism grew until, when he was eighteen years old, he left the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor to join a commune in upstate New York founded by his father's religious mentor, John Humphrey Noyes. Charles's own fanaticism grew until, when he was eighteen years old, he left the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor to join a commune in upstate New York founded by his father's religious mentor, John Humphrey Noyes.

The central tenet of Noyes's doctrine-and the idea that appealed most to men like Guiteau's father-was perfectionism. Noyes believed that, through prayer and the right kind of education, a person could become intellectually, morally, and spiritually perfect, and so would be free from sin. Noyes believed that he had reached perfection and was anointed by G.o.d to help others shed their own sins. With this goal in mind, he had founded his commune, the Oneida Community, named for the town in which it was established in 1848. Oneida would last more than thirty years, becoming the most successful utopian socialist community in the United States. most to men like Guiteau's father-was perfectionism. Noyes believed that, through prayer and the right kind of education, a person could become intellectually, morally, and spiritually perfect, and so would be free from sin. Noyes believed that he had reached perfection and was anointed by G.o.d to help others shed their own sins. With this goal in mind, he had founded his commune, the Oneida Community, named for the town in which it was established in 1848. Oneida would last more than thirty years, becoming the most successful utopian socialist community in the United States.

Like most of Noyes's followers, Guiteau moved into the "Mansion House," a sprawling brick Victorian Gothic building that, over time, would grow to ninety-three thousand square feet. It held thirty-five apartments for the nearly three hundred members of the commune. Although the private rooms were small and unadorned, the property had a wide variety of fairly elaborate communal amenities-from theaters to a photographic studio to a Turkish bath.

Guiteau's father dreamed of living in the Mansion House, but his second wife refused to follow him, perhaps in part because of the community's practice of "complex marriage," or free love-a concept that Noyes had developed himself, and practiced liberally. According to Noyes, monogamous love was not only selfish but "unhealthy and pernicious," and the commune's members were encouraged to have a wide variety of s.e.xual partners in the hope that they would not fall in love with any one person.

In an effort to avoid too many pregnancies, Noyes preached what he called "male continence." Intercourse, "up to the very moment of emission," he insisted, "is voluntary voluntary, entirely under the control of the moral faculty, and can be stopped at any point can be stopped at any point. In other words, the presence presence and the and the motions motions can be continued or stopped at will, and it is only the final can be continued or stopped at will, and it is only the final crisis crisis of emission that is automatic or uncontrollable.... If you say that this is impossible, I answer that I of emission that is automatic or uncontrollable.... If you say that this is impossible, I answer that I know know it is possible-nay, that it is easy." It was like rowing a boat, Noyes said. If you stay near the sh.o.r.e, you'll be fine. It's only when you row too near a waterfall that you find yourself in danger. it is possible-nay, that it is easy." It was like rowing a boat, Noyes said. If you stay near the sh.o.r.e, you'll be fine. It's only when you row too near a waterfall that you find yourself in danger.

Guiteau was enthusiastic about complex marriage, and was willing to try male continence, but he quickly found that life at Oneida required far more humility than he could tolerate. Members of the commune were not only expected to help anywhere they were needed-from the kitchen to the fields-doing work that Guiteau found tiresome and demeaning, but to accept the work gratefully and humbly. Guiteau felt that Noyes and his followers should be grateful to him, rather than the other way around. In a letter to Noyes he wrote, " more humility than he could tolerate. Members of the commune were not only expected to help anywhere they were needed-from the kitchen to the fields-doing work that Guiteau found tiresome and demeaning, but to accept the work gratefully and humbly. Guiteau felt that Noyes and his followers should be grateful to him, rather than the other way around. In a letter to Noyes he wrote, "You prayed G.o.d...to send you help, and he has sent me. Had he not sent me, you may depend upon it, I never should have come Had he not sent me, you may depend upon it, I never should have come." Believing that he should be shown special deference, and offended by the disapproval and, at times, disdain with which he was treated in the community, he said, "I ask no one to respect me personally personally, but I do ask them to respect me as an envoy of the true G.o.d." He was, he believed, "G.o.d's minute man."

Although Guiteau claimed to work directly for G.o.d-to be "in the employ of Jesus Christ & Co., the very ablest and strongest firm in the universe"-he expected more than heavenly rewards. He wanted all the pleasures the world had to offer, chief among them fame. On one occasion, a member of the commune picked up a slip of paper he had seen Guiteau drop. On it Guiteau, uneducated, isolated, and friendless, had written a strangely grandiose, utterly delusional announcement: "Chas. J. Guiteau of England, Premier of the British Lion will lecture this evening at seven o'clock."

Guiteau's extravagant dreams and delusions persisted in the face of consistent and complete failure. Although the commune promised the pleasures of complex marriage, to Guiteau's frustration, "the Community women," one of Oneida's members would later admit, "did not extend love and confidence toward him." In fact, so thorough was his rejection among the women that they nicknamed him "Charles Gitout." He bitterly complained that, while at the commune, he was " In fact, so thorough was his rejection among the women that they nicknamed him "Charles Gitout." He bitterly complained that, while at the commune, he was "practically a Shaker."

Guiteau also frequently found himself the object of "criticisms," a method Noyes had designed to help his followers identify and overcome their faults so that they could reach perfection. During a criticism, Guiteau was forced to sit in a room, encircled by the men and women with whom he worked and lived most closely, and listen in silence as they described his faults. Again and again, he was accused of "egotism and conceit."

In Guiteau's case at least, the criticisms apparently had little effect. When, in 1865, he finally left the commune, after having lived there for nearly six years, he announced that his departure was necessary because he was "destined to accomplish some very important mission." "G.o.d and my own conscience," he proclaimed, "drive me to the battle and I dare not draw back."

Guiteau's plan was to start a religious newspaper called The Theocrat The Theocrat, which he said would be a "warm friend of the Bible, though it may develop many new and strange biblical theories, differing widely from the teachings of popular theologians." His brother-in-law, George Scoville, recalling Guiteau's outsized enthusiasm and confidence, said that he "labored there for weeks and months to start that project, supposing that he was going right into the matter with entire success, and that this newspaper was going to take its place every morning at every breakfast table in the land." After just four months, Guiteau gave up and begged Noyes to allow him to return to the commune. A year later, however, he left again, sneaking out at night so as to avoid another criticism.

Although Guiteau would never again return to Oneida, his life outside the commune was far from what he had envisioned. Rather than achieving success on a grand scale, he suffered a series of disappointments, rejections, and disasters. Even his brief marriage, which took place soon after he left Oneida, ended in divorce.

Guiteau spent nearly an entire year doing nothing at all, living on a small inheritance while he struggled to free himself from his fear that, by leaving the commune, he had "lost [his] eternal salvation." "The idea that I was to be eternally d.a.m.ned haunted me and haunted me and haunted me every day, and day and night," he said. "So I was unable to do any business."

Finally, desperate for money, Guiteau decided to take up a profession, choosing one that he thought would be lucrative-the law. In a time when law school was encouraged but not required he read a handful of books, served as a clerk for a few months, and then stood for the bar. His examiner was a prosecuting attorney named Charles Reed, who, according to Guiteau's brother-in-law, himself a lawyer, was a "good-hearted fellow," if not particularly discerning. Reed " if not particularly discerning. Reed "asked him three questions and he answered two and missed one," Scoville recalled, "and that was the way he got to be a lawyer."

In the courtroom, Guiteau was as unpredictable and egotistical as he had been at Oneida. "The style and plea of his conduct," reported a psychiatrist who would later study his life, "were such as to convince all the lawyers who were present that he was a monomaniac." Arguing on behalf of a client in a criminal case, Guiteau "talked and acted like a crazy man." After he leapt over the bar that separated him from the jury and put his fist directly in the face of one of the jurists, prompting an explosion of laughter in the courtroom, "his client was convicted, without the jury leaving their seats." In another case, Reed, Guiteau's bar examiner, recalled that, instead of addressing the petty larceny of which his client was accused, Guiteau "talked about theology, about the divinity, and about the rights of man.... It was a very wandering speech, full of vagaries and peculiarities."

Much more than the work itself, Guiteau enjoyed the prestige that accompanied his new profession. He would frequently take out his business cards simply to admire them. There were eight lines of text on the front of the cards alone, including a proud note that his office building had an elevator. The back had fourteen lines, which made up a reference list, separated by city, of businessmen Guiteau had met only briefly, if at all.

Over the next fourteen years, Guiteau opened, and then quickly abandoned, a succession of law practices in Chicago and New York. In between, he tried his hand at more exciting lines of work. Among his most ambitious endeavors was a plan to purchase one of Chicago's largest newspapers-the Inter Ocean Inter Ocean. He hoped to convince some of the city's wealthiest citizens to give him $75,000 to fund the project. In exchange for their investment, he promised to use the paper to win for them any statewide political office they desired. "I asked Mr. John H. Adams to put money into it," Guiteau openly admitted. "He was the president of the Second National Bank...worth about half a million dollars. I offered to make him governor of Illinois [but] he didn't have any political aspirations. I wanted to get hold of these men that had money and political aspirations. They were the kind of men to help me in that scheme."

After two months of fruitless searching for a financier, Guiteau decided it was time to return to religion, this time as a traveling evangelist. As he did with each new venture, he threw himself into evangelism with astonishing pa.s.sion and complete confidence. For nearly a year, he traveled to dozens of cities across several states, from Buffalo, New York, to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Adopting as his own Noyes's theory that the second coming of Christ had already occurred, in AD 70, he gave lectures to anyone who was willing to listen-and pay a small fee.

People "have been in the habit of looking way off into the indefinite future for the second coming," Guiteau would explain. "'Hold!' I say, 'it occurred eighteen hundred years ago.'"

Guiteau would later admit that his attempt at evangelism was a "failure all the way through," but, he said, "I stuck to it like a hero." After arriving in a town, he would find the business district and walk through it, scattering handbills announcing his lecture and trying to sell printed copies for twenty-five cents. After arriving in a town, he would find the business district and walk through it, scattering handbills announcing his lecture and trying to sell printed copies for twenty-five cents. On most nights, only a handful of people showed up, and after Guiteau began to speak they either heckled him or simply left. After he gave a lecture t.i.tled "Is There a h.e.l.l?" to an unusually large crowd at the Newark Opera House, the On most nights, only a handful of people showed up, and after Guiteau began to speak they either heckled him or simply left. After he gave a lecture t.i.tled "Is There a h.e.l.l?" to an unusually large crowd at the Newark Opera House, the Newark Daily Journal Newark Daily Journal ran a jeering review with the headline "Is there a h.e.l.l? Fifty deceived people are of the opinion that there ought to be." ran a jeering review with the headline "Is there a h.e.l.l? Fifty deceived people are of the opinion that there ought to be."

Whatever his occupation, Guiteau survived largely on sheer audacity. As he traveled between towns by train, he never bought a ticket. "You may say that this is dead beating, and I had no business to go around in this kind of style," he argued. "I say I was working for the Lord and the Lord took care of me, and I was not to find fault with the way he took care of me." When the conductor asked for his ticket, Guiteau would simply explain that he was doing G.o.d's work and had no money for train fare. Frequently, the man would take pity on him and let him ride for free, but occasionally he would meet a conductor who "was not a Christian man evidently," and would be roughly put off the train at the next station.

Guiteau took the same approach to board bills that he did to train fares. Each time he entered a town, he would choose the nicest boarding house he could find, never planning to pay for his room. " fares. Each time he entered a town, he would choose the nicest boarding house he could find, never planning to pay for his room. "I had no trouble all this time in getting in first-cla.s.s places," he proudly recalled. "They always took me for a gentleman." When he was ready to move on, he would sneak out under cover of night, or simply leave town immediately following his lecture.

This strategy, however, was riskier than traveling on a train without a ticket. In Michigan, Guiteau learned to his great discomfort, "you can arrest a man for a board-bill the same as you can for stealing a coat." One night in Detroit, he was arrested after his lecture and sent back on the express train to Ann Arbor, where, as always, he had left without paying his bill. Fortunately for Guiteau, the deputy sheriff a.s.signed to travel with him fell asleep on the train. "I kept watching him and he kept bobbing his head," Guiteau later recalled. "When we got to Ypsilanti I says, 'I guess I will get out of this,' and I jumped up and ran off just as tight as I could for about a mile. I had not been gone more than a minute by the clock before I heard them whistle down-brakes; the fellow had missed me."

Guiteau was not always so lucky. In 1874, after not paying rent on the office s.p.a.ce for his law firm in New York, he spent a month in the grim lower Manhattan prison that would become known as the Tombs. "I never was so much tortured in my life," he said of the experience. "I felt as if I would go crazy there. I was put in a little miserable hole, and three or four of the nastiest, dirtiest b.u.mmers were put in there with me." As searing as the experience had been, the first thing Guiteau did upon release-after "soak[ing] my body in the hottest kind of suds I could find"-was to open another law office, this time in Chicago, and begin again.

As Guiteau's life careened out of control, he began asking anyone he knew-even the most distant acquaintance-for money. His most reliable source was his sister, Frances, and her husband, George Scoville, whom he badgered incessantly with requests for loans they knew he would never repay. At one point, he wrote to Frances, "If Mr. Scoville would let me have a hundred dollars for a month or two, it would greatly oblige me, and I would give him my note with interest for the same." Never subtle, Guiteau ended the letter with an appeal that was strikingly direct even for him. "But to leave this: him. "But to leave this: money money, to meet my personal wants, is what I desire now," he wrote. "Write soon soon."

Much larger sums of money, Guiteau believed, might be acquired through lawsuits. At one point, he attempted to sue the New York Herald New York Herald for $100,000, accusing the newspaper of libel after it ran a story warning its readers of his unethical practices as a lawyer. The for $100,000, accusing the newspaper of libel after it ran a story warning its readers of his unethical practices as a lawyer. The Herald Herald cited one occasion in which Guiteau, acting as a bill collector-the primary work of his practice-had collected $175 of a $350 bill, and then refused to turn any of it over to his client. He claimed that he had been unable to collect anything beyond his own fee, and so owed his client nothing. After another enraged client stepped forward with a complaint against him, however, Guiteau quickly dropped the suit and fled the city. cited one occasion in which Guiteau, acting as a bill collector-the primary work of his practice-had collected $175 of a $350 bill, and then refused to turn any of it over to his client. He claimed that he had been unable to collect anything beyond his own fee, and so owed his client nothing. After another enraged client stepped forward with a complaint against him, however, Guiteau quickly dropped the suit and fled the city.

Searching for another target, Guiteau even tried to sue Oneida. Ignoring the fact that he had signed a waiver of compensation when he joined the commune, he claimed that he was owed $9,000, plus interest, in back pay for the six years he had worked there. When Noyes learned of the suit, he replied drily that, while at Oneida, Guiteau had been not only "moody [and] self-conceited" but "a great part of the time was not reckoned in the ranks of reliable labor." After speaking with Noyes, Guiteau's lawyer realized that his client had lied to him and resigned from the case.

Undeterred, Guiteau continued to rail against the commune. In a series of letters to Noyes, he threatened to expose Oneida's controversial s.e.xual practices and to send the founder himself to prison. "If you intend to pay my claim say so," he warned. "If you want to spend 10 or 20 years in Sing Sing and have your Communities 'wiped out,' don't pay it." When Noyes did not reply, Guiteau quickly wrote again. "I infer from your silence that you do not intend to pay the claim. All right. If you find yourself arrested within a week, it will be your own fault."

Noyes's reaction to these threats mirrored the thoughts of nearly everyone who came into contact with Guiteau: He was certain he was insane. "I have no ill will toward him," Noyes wrote to Guiteau's father. "I regard him as insane, and I prayed for him last night as sincerely as I ever prayed for my own son, that is now in a Lunatic Asylum." Luther Guiteau, furious with his son and ashamed of his behavior, did not hesitate to agree. Only the lack of money to pay for an asylum, he a.s.sured Noyes, prevented him from having his son inst.i.tutionalized. Luther's oldest son, John, who was a successful insurance salesman in Boston and had been repeatedly humiliated by Charles, wrote with restrained fury that he believed his brother "capable of any folly, stupidity, or rascality. The only possible excuse I can render for him is that he is absolutely insane and is hardly responsible for his acts." to agree. Only the lack of money to pay for an asylum, he a.s.sured Noyes, prevented him from having his son inst.i.tutionalized. Luther's oldest son, John, who was a successful insurance salesman in Boston and had been repeatedly humiliated by Charles, wrote with restrained fury that he believed his brother "capable of any folly, stupidity, or rascality. The only possible excuse I can render for him is that he is absolutely insane and is hardly responsible for his acts."

Throughout Guiteau's life, the only person who remained his unwavering ally was his sister, Frances. After their mother's death, Frances, who was six years older than Charles, had done her best to fill the void in her brother's life. She had not wanted him to join Oneida, but after he left the commune, she had tried to help him when no one else would. As well as giving Charles money, she and her husband allowed him to live with their family on several occasions, even after he was released from the Tombs.

Finally, though, even Frances had to admit that her brother was deeply disturbed, and likely dangerous. This painful realization came in the summer of 1875, when Charles was living with her family in Wisconsin. One hot afternoon, as he lay on his back on her sofa, she called out to him from the kitchen, asking if he would "cut up a little wood for us." He "immediately said, 'Yes,'" Frances remembered, "and got up and went out and did it willingly." After he cut the wood, however, instead of taking it to the shed, he dumped it on a walkway leading to the house. Since his arrival, Charles had been sullen and easily angered, so when Frances saw the wood, rather than chastising him, she quietly bent down to pick it up herself. "As quick as I did that he raised the ax, without any provocation or words," she would recall years later, still shaken by the memory. "It was not so much the raising of the ax as it was the look of his face that frightened me. He looked to me like a wild animal." Terrified, she dropped the wood and ran into the house.

Fearing as much for her own safety as for Charles's sanity, Frances reluctantly admitted that her brother needed to be inst.i.tutionalized. Before taking such a drastic step, however, she asked her family physician to examine him. After one conversation with Guiteau, the doctor, deeply concerned about the young man's "explosions of emotional feeling," strongly advised Frances to place him in an asylum without delay. Frances planned to travel with Charles to Chicago, where he would be tried by a jury and, she was certain, found insane. " planned to travel with Charles to Chicago, where he would be tried by a jury and, she was certain, found insane. "I had no doubt then of his insanity," she said. "He was losing his mind." Before the trip could even be arranged, however, Charles made his escape.

For the next five years, Guiteau continued his peripatetic life, moving from city to city and scheme to scheme until, in 1880, he drifted to Boston, where he developed a new, all-consuming obsession: politics. A voracious reader, he followed the political machinations of men like Ulysses S. Grant and Roscoe Conkling with intense interest and growing admiration. It did not take long for him to decide that he was a Republican Stalwart, and that the best way to enter politics was through the spoils system.

The upcoming presidential election was irresistible to Guiteau. By forcibly inserting himself into the Republican campaign, he believed, he would win not only the grat.i.tude of high-ranking men in the party, but, ultimately, an important political appointment. In the weeks leading up to the national conventions, Guiteau spent every day in a Boston library, feverishly working on a campaign speech. Believing, as did most of the country, that the Republicans would nominate Grant, and knowing that Winfield Scott Hanc.o.c.k, a highly decorated Union general, was heavily favored among the Democrats, he t.i.tled his speech "Grant against Hanc.o.c.k." After Garfield's surprise nomination-and Hanc.o.c.k's predictable one, on the second ballot-he changed the t.i.tle, and virtually nothing else, to "Garfield against Hanc.o.c.k." Believing, as did most of the country, that the Republicans would nominate Grant, and knowing that Winfield Scott Hanc.o.c.k, a highly decorated Union general, was heavily favored among the Democrats, he t.i.tled his speech "Grant against Hanc.o.c.k." After Garfield's surprise nomination-and Hanc.o.c.k's predictable one, on the second ballot-he changed the t.i.tle, and virtually nothing else, to "Garfield against Hanc.o.c.k."

Three days later, clutching his speech and a small, frayed bag, Guiteau had boarded the Stonington Stonington, his sights set on the Republican campaign headquarters in New York. "I remember distinctly," he would later say, "that I felt that I was on my way to the White House." Garfield's sudden rise to prominence, he was certain, only foreshadowed his own.

CHAPTER 5

BLEAK M MOUNTAIN

This honor comes to me unsought. I have never had the Presidential fever; not even for a day.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

That night, as Guiteau's steamship collided with the Narragansett Narragansett, the object of his ambitions, James Garfield, slept in the farmhouse he shared with his wife and five children in Mentor, Ohio, far removed from the tempestuous workings of his presidential campaign. The house, which the reporters who stretched out on its wide lawn that summer christened Lawnfield, sat on 160 acres of land about twenty miles from the log cabin Garfield's father had built half a century before. Mentor, as one reporter described it, was less a " The house, which the reporters who stretched out on its wide lawn that summer christened Lawnfield, sat on 160 acres of land about twenty miles from the log cabin Garfield's father had built half a century before. Mentor, as one reporter described it, was less a "regular town [than] a thickly settled neighborhood." A few houses and small farms, encircled by orchards and gardens in heavy bloom, were scattered along a dirt road that ran for two miles between the train station and Lawnfield. While traveling along this road in 1877, Garfield had been impressed with the area's "quiet country beauty" and decided it would be a good place to teach his sons the lessons he believed they could learn only on a farm.

For the past three years, Garfield had worked on his farm every chance he got. He built a barn, moved a large shed, planted an orchard, and even shopped for curtains for the house. To the house itself, which was one and a half stories high with a white exterior and a dark red roof, he added an entire story, a front porch, and a library. Even with the new library, Garfield's books filled every room. " To the house itself, which was one and a half stories high with a white exterior and a dark red roof, he added an entire story, a front porch, and a library. Even with the new library, Garfield's books filled every room. "You can go nowhere in the general's home without coming face to face with books," one reporter marveled. "They confront you in the hall when you enter, in the parlor and the sitting room, in the dining-room and even in the bath-room, where doc.u.ments and speeches are corded up like firewood." confront you in the hall when you enter, in the parlor and the sitting room, in the dining-room and even in the bath-room, where doc.u.ments and speeches are corded up like firewood."

Although Garfield enjoyed improving the farmhouse, his greatest interest lay in the land, which he approached as if it were an enormous science experiment. His first large project had been to build a dam to irrigate the fields. Then, the summer before his nomination, he experimented with a fertilizer made up of a carefully calibrated combination of pulverized limestone and ground bone. "I long for time," he lamented in his journal, "to study agricultural chemistry and make experiments with soils and forces."

Garfield finally got his wish during his presidential campaign. Although he argued that he should "take the stump and bear a fighting share in the campaign," traveling from town to town and asking for votes was considered undignified for a presidential candidate. Abraham Lincoln had not given a single speech on his own behalf during either of his campaigns, and Rutherford B. Hayes advised Garfield to do the same. "Sit crosslegged," he said, "and look wise."

Happily left to his own devices, Garfield poured his time and energy into his farm. He worked in the fields, planting, hoeing, and harvesting crops, and swung a scythe with the confidence and steady hand he had developed as a boy. In July, he oversaw the threshing of his oats. "Result 475 bushels," he noted. "No[t] so good a yield as last year."

While Garfield worried over his crops, political war was being waged in his name. The princ.i.p.al target of attack was the Democratic nominee, Winfield Scott Hanc.o.c.k. Widely known as "Hanc.o.c.k the Superb," he was famous for his courage and resounding success during the Civil War, but he had never held an elected office and was perceived to have little more than a clouded understanding of his own platform. The Republicans, naturally, did everything in their power to encourage this perception, including distributing a pamphlet that was t.i.tled "Hanc.o.c.k's Political Achievements" and filled with blank pages.

Hanc.o.c.k's greatest liability, however, was his own party. Although he had been a Union hero, he could do nothing to change the fact that, in the minds of the American people, the Democratic Party was still inextricably linked to the South. Garfield himself referred to it as the " linked to the South. Garfield himself referred to it as the "rebel party" and growled that "every Rebel guerilla and jayhawker, every man who ran to Canada to avoid the draft, every bounty-jumper, every deserter, every cowardly sneak that ran from danger and disgraced his flag,... every villain, of whatever name or crime, who loves power more than justice, slavery more than freedom, is a Democrat." At every opportunity, Republicans reminded voters of the Democratic Party's ties to the South, and accused Hanc.o.c.k of having, at best, divided loyalties.

Democrats, in turn, focused their attentions on Garfield, who, unlike Hanc.o.c.k, had a long public career to plumb. As Garfield had known it would be, the Democrats' first point of attack was the Credit Mobilier scandal of 1872. At that time, Garfield had been accused, along with several other members of Congress, of accepting from a fellow congressman a good deal on stock in a railroad company called Credit Mobilier of America. In fact, Garfield had turned down the stock, but soon after had accepted a $300 loan from the same congressman. Although he had repaid the loan before he was aware of the shadow that had fallen over Credit Mobilier-which, as well as attempting to bribe congressmen, was involved in fraud-and a congressional committee had absolved him of any intentional wrongdoing, Garfield knew that his name would always be linked with the scandal. " In fact, Garfield had turned down the stock, but soon after had accepted a $300 loan from the same congressman. Although he had repaid the loan before he was aware of the shadow that had fallen over Credit Mobilier-which, as well as attempting to bribe congressmen, was involved in fraud-and a congressional committee had absolved him of any intentional wrongdoing, Garfield knew that his name would always be linked with the scandal. "There is nothing in my relation to the case for which [the] tenderest conscience or the most scrupulous honor can blame me," he wrote to a friend at the time. But "it is not enough for one to know that his heart and motives are pure, if he is not sure but that good men...who do not know him, will set him down among the list of men of doubtful morality."

In the end, the effort to renew public interest in the scandal failed, but it was not for lack of trying. In an impressive, nationwide campaign to remind voters of Credit Mobilier, and to exploit any lingering questions about Garfield's role in it, Democrats covered every available surface in every major city with the numbers 329-the amount of money Garfield had been accused of earning in stock dividends. The numbers were on sidewalks, buildings, streets, and barns. Somehow, they even made their way into the homes and offices of members of the inc.u.mbent Republican administration. When the secretary of war sat down to breakfast one morning, 329 was scrawled on his napkin. The secretary of the treasury found the numbers on a piece of mail addressed to him, the secretary of agriculture on a beet someone had placed on his desk, and the secretary of state on his hat and, incredibly, the headboard of his bed. morning, 329 was scrawled on his napkin. The secretary of the treasury found the numbers on a piece of mail addressed to him, the secretary of agriculture on a beet someone had placed on his desk, and the secretary of state on his hat and, incredibly, the headboard of his bed.

When dredging up an old scandal proved ineffective, zealous Democrats invented a new one. At the height of the campaign, the editor of a New York newspaper found on his desk a letter supposedly written by Garfield professing his support for Chinese immigration. "Individuals or companys [sic] have the right to buy labor where they can get it cheapest," the letter, which was written on congressional stationery, read. The issue of Chinese immigration was then highly inflammatory, guaranteed to inflame racist sentiment, incite the anger of American labor forces, and threaten the future of any presidential candidate who argued for it. The signature on the letter, however, did not remotely resemble Garfield's, and after some investigation, the plot behind the forgery was revealed. After the election, a man from Maryland would confess his role in the plot in a New York courtroom, and be sentenced to the Tombs.

Throughout the campaign, despite an onslaught of attacks and accusations, and Garfield's silence in the face of them, his supporters steadily grew. In New York, Garfield campaign clubs sprang up among completely disparate groups, from 52 students at the University of the City of New-York, to 150 German immigrants in Manhattan, to 50 young ladies from Jefferson County, who "raised a pole 50 feet high, and swung out a handsome streamer." The In New York, Garfield campaign clubs sprang up among completely disparate groups, from 52 students at the University of the City of New-York, to 150 German immigrants in Manhattan, to 50 young ladies from Jefferson County, who "raised a pole 50 feet high, and swung out a handsome streamer." The New York Times New York Times reported that a judge who had been a lifelong Democrat announced his intention of switching party allegiance so that he could " reported that a judge who had been a lifelong Democrat announced his intention of switching party allegiance so that he could "support Gen. Garfield for President, as the best and fittest thing for an honest and patriotic citizen to do." In Washington, D.C., a former slave named John Moss lost his job at the Library of Congress when he pummeled a fellow worker who had torn to pieces a lithograph of Garfield that Moss had sitting on his desk. In Washington, D.C., a former slave named John Moss lost his job at the Library of Congress when he pummeled a fellow worker who had torn to pieces a lithograph of Garfield that Moss had sitting on his desk.

Freed slaves were arguably Garfield's most ardent supporters. One of the best-known, and most enthusiastically sung, election songs of the contest was "The Battle Cry of Freemen." Americans could hear the final stanza ringing through the convention halls and city streets, sung with joy and determination: Now we'll use a Freemen's right, as thinking freemen should.Shouting the battle cry of Garfield.And we'll place our ballots where they'll do the toiling millions good.Shouting the battle cry for Garfield.Hurrah! Boys for Garfield.

On October 25, a political meeting of "colored citizens" at the Cooper Inst.i.tute in New York filled an entire hall to overflowing. "It could not have been larger," a reporter said of the gathering, "for every inch of s.p.a.ce in the large hall was crowded. The seats were filled almost as soon as the doors were opened, and in a very few minutes all the standing room was taken." Even more remarkable than the size of the crowd was its complete racial integration, just fifteen years after the end of the Civil War. "Black men and white," a newspaper reported, "were in almost equal proportion throughout the hall and on the platform."

The keynote speaker that night, and the cause of all the excitement, was Frederick Dougla.s.s. After climbing to the platform, the august former slave, now a human rights leader and marshal of the District of Columbia, wasted no time in telling his audience which presidential candidate would receive his vote. "James A. Garfield must be our President," he said to riotous cheers. "I know [Garfield], colored man; he is right on our questions, take my word for it. He is a typical American all over. He has shown us how man in the humblest circ.u.mstances can grapple with man, rise, and win. He has come from obscurity to fame, and we'll make him more famous." After pausing once more as the cheers reverberated through the hall, Dougla.s.s went on. Garfield, he said, "has burst up through the incrustations that surround the poor, and has shown us how it is possible for an American to rise. He has built the road over which he traveled. He has buffeted the billows of adversity, and to-night he swims in safety where Hanc.o.c.k, in despair, is going down."

Although Garfield did not allow himself to campaign, he could not resist addressing the thousands of people who traveled to Mentor to see him. In what came to be known as "front porch talks," he would stand on his wide veranda, talking to enormous groups-from five hundred members of an Indianapolis Lincoln Club, to nine hundred women who had traveled together from Cleveland. On a single day in October, despite the rain, five thousand people converged on Garfield's farm. When a group of Germans stood before him, he spoke to them in their native language, delivering the first speech by an American presidential candidate that was not in English. of an Indianapolis Lincoln Club, to nine hundred women who had traveled together from Cleveland. On a single day in October, despite the rain, five thousand people converged on Garfield's farm. When a group of Germans stood before him, he spoke to them in their native language, delivering the first speech by an American presidential candidate that was not in English.

The most stirring moment in the campaign came in late October, when the members of a singing group from an all-black university in Nashville, Tennessee, stood before Garfield's modest farmhouse and sang for him. "As the singers poured out their melodious and at the same time vibrant but mournful spirituals, the little audience became increasingly emotional," Garfield's private secretary later recalled. "Tears were trickling down the cheeks of many of the women, and one staid old gentleman blubbered audibly behind a door." When the performance ended, Garfield stood to address the group. Squaring his shoulders and straightening his back, he said, in a voice that rang through the still night, "And I tell you now, in the closing days of this campaign, that I would rather be with you and defeated than against you and victorious."

A few weeks later, on the afternoon of November 2, a bright, cloudless day, Garfield traveled down the dusty road from Lawnfield to the town hall to cast his vote. Aside from this one concession to the election, and an occasional trip to the office behind his house to see what news had come over the telegraph, he went about his normal routine. He wrote some letters, made plans for a new garden near the farm's engine house, and settled his dairy account in town. That evening, he visited with neighbors.

Although Garfield did not show a great deal of interest in the election, the rest of the country did. Voter turnout was 78 percent, and as the results began to come in, it quickly became clear that it was going to be a close race. Interest was particularly high in the wake of the previous presidential election, when Rutherford B. Hayes was widely believed to have stolen the presidency from Samuel J. Tilden. Tilden, the governor of New York, had won the popular vote by a clear and undisputed margin, and, with all but four states accounted for, had 184 electoral votes to Hayes's 165. However, when the remaining four states reported two different sets of returns, Congress formed an electoral commission to distribute their votes. The commission, a highly partisan group made up of eight Republicans and seven Democrats, awarded all twenty of the disputed votes to Hayes, handing him the presidency by one electoral vote. votes. The commission, a highly partisan group made up of eight Republicans and seven Democrats, awarded all twenty of the disputed votes to Hayes, handing him the presidency by one electoral vote.

In 1880, no commission threatened to steal the presidency, but so close was the race that there was uncertainty until the final hours. At 3:00 a.m. on the morning of November 3, with the nation still anxiously waiting to learn who its next president would be, Garfield went to bed. When he woke up a few hours later and was told in no uncertain terms that he had won the election and was to be the twentieth president of the United States, he was, one reporter noted with astonishment, the "coolest man in the room." Later that day, Garfield gave his election to the presidency little more mention in his diary than he had the progress of his oat crop a few weeks earlier. "The news of 3 a.m.," he wrote, "is fully justified by the morning papers."

In the days that followed, surrounded by celebrations and frantic plans for his administration, Garfield could not shake the feeling that the presidency would bring him only loneliness and sorrow. As he watched everything he treasured-his time with his children, his books, and his farm-abruptly disappear, he understood that the life he had known was gone. The presidency seemed to him not a great accomplishment but a "bleak mountain" that he was obliged to ascend. Sitting down at his desk in a rare moment to himself, he tried to explain in a letter to a friend the strange sense of loss he had felt since the election.

"There is a tone of sadness running through this triumph," he wrote, "which I can hardly explain."

PART TWO

WAR

CHAPTER 6

HAND AND S SOUL

To a young man who has in himself the magnificent possibilities of life, it is not fitting that he should be permanently commanded.

He should be a commander.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

As Garfield tried to accept the new life that lay before him, Alexander Graham Bell, working in a small laboratory in Washington, D.C., struggled to free himself from the overwhelming success of his first invention. Only five years had pa.s.sed since the Centennial Exhibition, but for Bell, everything had changed. While the telephone had lifted him from poverty, made him famous, and won him the respect of the world's most accomplished scientists, it had also robbed him of what he valued most: time.

Bell had always believed in the telephone, not just its inventiveness but its usefulness. But even he had not antic.i.p.ated how quickly and widely it would be embraced. "I did not realize," he would admit years later, "the overwhelming importance of the invention." By the summer of 1877, more than a thousand telephones were already operating in Philadelphia, Chicago, and as far west as San Francisco. By the summer of 1877, more than a thousand telephones were already operating in Philadelphia, Chicago, and as far west as San Francisco. That same year, President Hayes had one installed in the White House, and Queen Victoria requested a private demonstration at her summer retreat on the Isle of Wight. " That same year, President Hayes had one installed in the White House, and Queen Victoria requested a private demonstration at her summer retreat on the Isle of Wight. "A Professor Bell explained the whole process," she wrote in her diary that night, "which is most extraordinary."

With astonishing speed, the telephone won over not just presidents and queens but skeptics and Luddites. Even Mark Twain, who complained that " that "the voice already carries entirely too far as it is," talked his boss at the Hartford Courant Hartford Courant into putting a telephone in the newsroom. Then, still grumbling that "if Bell had invented a m.u.f.fler or a gag he would have done a real service," he had two installed in his own home, one downstairs for his family and a second in the third-floor billiard room just for himself. into putting a telephone in the newsroom. Then, still grumbling that "if Bell had invented a m.u.f.fler or a gag he would have done a real service," he had two installed in his own home, one downstairs for his family and a second in the third-floor billiard room just for himself.