Destiny of the Republic Part 4

Beyond a doorman and the occasional presence of an aging police officer who had worked in the White House for nearly two decades, the only buffer between the president and the public was Garfield's twenty-three-year-old private secretary, Joseph Stanley Brown. between the president and the public was Garfield's twenty-three-year-old private secretary, Joseph Stanley Brown. Brown had met Garfield two years earlier, when he was doing secretarial work for the legendary explorer John Wesley Powell. Powell was anxious to get funding from Congress for his survey of the American West and was counting on Garfield's help. Garfield was deeply interested in Powell's work, but his secretary had been ill for quite some time, and he was buried under stacks of correspondence. Powell's solution was to lend him his own secretary. Brown had met Garfield two years earlier, when he was doing secretarial work for the legendary explorer John Wesley Powell. Powell was anxious to get funding from Congress for his survey of the American West and was counting on Garfield's help. Garfield was deeply interested in Powell's work, but his secretary had been ill for quite some time, and he was buried under stacks of correspondence. Powell's solution was to lend him his own secretary.

The next morning, on his way to work, Brown stopped by Garfield's house in Washington, D.C. When Garfield was told that a young man was waiting for him, he crossed the hall and, entering the room, said in his characteristically cheerful and booming voice, "Good morning, what can I do for you?" His casual smile quickly turned to a look of surprise as Brown, then just twenty-one, replied boldly, "It is not what you can do for me, General Garfield. It is what I can do for you."

Over the following weeks, as Garfield came to know Brown, one of the things he liked best about the young man was that he relied on his own intelligence and ingenuity. Like Garfield, Brown had come from humble origins but had risen through hard work and disciplined study. "Aspirations for the reflected glory of a long lineage of ill.u.s.trious progenitors-the solace of ign.o.ble minds," he would later write, "furnishes no part of the 'motif' of my ancestral inquiries." Brown's grandfather Nathaniel Stanley had come to the United States from England in 1819 in order to avoid debtor's prison, changing his name to Brown upon arrival in Baltimore. Brown's grandfather Nathaniel Stanley had come to the United States from England in 1819 in order to avoid debtor's prison, changing his name to Brown upon arrival in Baltimore. In America, Nathaniel's son became a carpenter, and his grandson, Joseph, was expected to do the same. Although Joseph dutifully learned carpentry during the day, he studied Latin at night. In America, Nathaniel's son became a carpenter, and his grandson, Joseph, was expected to do the same. Although Joseph dutifully learned carpentry during the day, he studied Latin at night. When he was twelve, he also began to teach himself shorthand, recording the speeches of every public speaker he met, most of whom were ministers. He won his first job with Powell by offering to work for free. When he was twelve, he also began to teach himself shorthand, recording the speeches of every public speaker he met, most of whom were ministers. He won his first job with Powell by offering to work for free.

Soon after Brown began working for Garfield, Powell won his funding from Congress, but lost his secretary to Garfield, who had come to rely on him. Brown, who was not much older than Garfield's oldest sons, quickly became part of the family. He traveled to Mentor, joined family dinners and croquet tournaments, listened as Garfield tried out his speeches, and even gave him advice on relating to his teenagers. " speeches, and even gave him advice on relating to his teenagers. "The gracious, affectionate home life of the Garfield family was a revelation to one whose own home life was rather severe and austere," Brown would later recall. "It was like having two homes."

Garfield made it clear to Brown from the beginning that he not only liked him, but genuinely needed his help. When Garfield had returned to Washington for a few days after his nomination, Brown decided not to call on him, worried that his boss would think he was just another person asking for a favor. He realized how wrong he had been when he ran into Garfield on the street. "Where have you been," Garfield asked him. "I need all my friends now." Exhausted and worried, Garfield was in earnest, but he roared with laughter when Brown, who knew that he had had hardly a moment to himself since his nomination, replied, "General, I do not think you could have been very lonesome."

As much as Garfield had come to rely on Brown, when it was time to fill the position of private secretary to the president, the young man who had served him so well was not even a candidate. The position, which was one of great influence and proximity to power, traditionally went to men of considerable political skill and experience. Thomas Jefferson's private secretary had been Meriwether Lewis, whom he soon after entrusted with exploring and charting the Pacific Northwest. Garfield wanted for his private secretary John Hay, who had been Lincoln's a.s.sistant private secretary twenty years earlier, and would, in another twenty years, be Theodore Roosevelt's secretary of state. He felt strongly that Hay was the right man for the job, but Hay, who had greater ambitions, delicately declined. "He is very bright and able," Garfield wrote in discouragement. "I more and more regret that I cannot have him for my private secretary."

When Garfield finally offered the job to Brown, it came as a surprise to no one but Garfield. One night, as the family sat before a fire in the farmhouse in Mentor, he ruminated aloud on his options for private secretary after the disappointment of Hay's refusal. Suddenly, he turned to Brown and said, "Well, my boy, I may have to give it to you." The young man replied drily, "Well that is is complimentary, to say the least, when all these other fellows have been first considered." Everyone in the room burst into laughter. complimentary, to say the least, when all these other fellows have been first considered." Everyone in the room burst into laughter.

As prestigious as it was to be the president's private secretary, Brown had no illusions about what the job would entail. Immediately following Garfield's nomination, more than five thousand letters had poured into Mentor from all parts of the country, and Brown had been forced to quickly devise a system to deal with them. On the morning of Garfield's inauguration, when the president-elect had collapsed into bed after finally finishing his speech, Brown had stayed up to make a clean copy of it, leaving him too tired to attend any of the day's events until the ball that night. Since then, he had been opening, sorting, and responding to as many as three hundred letters every day, and there was no one to help him. " Immediately following Garfield's nomination, more than five thousand letters had poured into Mentor from all parts of the country, and Brown had been forced to quickly devise a system to deal with them. On the morning of Garfield's inauguration, when the president-elect had collapsed into bed after finally finishing his speech, Brown had stayed up to make a clean copy of it, leaving him too tired to attend any of the day's events until the ball that night. Since then, he had been opening, sorting, and responding to as many as three hundred letters every day, and there was no one to help him. "There was no organized staff...with expert stenographers and typists," he later recalled. "Only one pair of hands."

Although Brown insisted that everyone who called on the president at the White House be treated with courtesy and respect, regardless of influence or station, he became very adept at shielding Garfield from office seekers. His first official act as private secretary was to issue an order that anyone who wished to see the president had to go through him first. This rule applied to even high-ranking politicians and old friends, many of whom exploded in rage when asked to wait in an anteroom filled from wall to wall with office seekers. "How the President and his Private Secretary stand the pressure of the many callers seems a mystery," one reporter marveled. "They must have nerves of steel, muscles of iron, and brains with more extent of cell and surface than fall to the lot of most mortals."

In a small room across town, Garfield's most persistent office seeker grew more determined and delusional with each pa.s.sing day. The day after Garfield's inauguration, Charles Guiteau had taken a train from New York to Washington, D.C. With only a few dollars in his pocket and no intention of looking for a job outside the White House, he quickly resumed his habit of moving from boardinghouse to boardinghouse when the rent came due. While he was forced to flee some rooms after just a day or two, he was able to keep others for several weeks by a.s.suring his landlady that he was about to be given an important political appointment. The day after Garfield's inauguration, Charles Guiteau had taken a train from New York to Washington, D.C. With only a few dollars in his pocket and no intention of looking for a job outside the White House, he quickly resumed his habit of moving from boardinghouse to boardinghouse when the rent came due. While he was forced to flee some rooms after just a day or two, he was able to keep others for several weeks by a.s.suring his landlady that he was about to be given an important political appointment.

Guiteau had begun laying the groundwork for his appointment as soon as Garfield was elected. In November, he had sent a note of congratulations that sounded as though he and Garfield were the oldest of friends. "We have cleaned them out just as I expected. Thank G.o.d!" A few days later he had written to then secretary of state William Evarts, asking if he was correct in a.s.suming that President Hayes's foreign ministers would step aside to make way for Garfield's appointments. "Please answer me at the Fifth Ave. Hotel at your earliest convenience," he instructed one of the highest-ranking men in the country. "I am solid for General Garfield and may get an appointment from him next spring."

a.s.suming that Garfield would soon be handing out appointments, Guiteau wanted to be first in line. After deciding that the position to which he was best suited was minister to Austria, he again wrote to the president-elect. "Dear General, I, Charles Guiteau, hereby make application for the Austrian Mission.... On the principle of first come first served, I have faith that you will give this application favorable consideration." Although Garfield received hundreds of letters every day from people asking for government appointments, this letter in particular impressed him as an "ill.u.s.tration of unparalleled audacity and impudence."

Guiteau, however, believed not only that he was ent.i.tled to a position of importance, but that he had the necessary credentials for one. "I have practiced law in New York and Chicago," he wrote, "and presume I am well qualified for [the position]." He also let it be known that he expected to come into some money. "Being about to marry a wealthy and accomplished heiress of this city," he told Garfield, "we think that together we might represent this Nation with dignity and grace." The heiress in question, however, knew Guiteau only as an annoying and potentially dangerous stalker. After spotting her in church and learning that she came from a wealthy family, he had begun sending her letters, following her on the street, and knocking on her front door. Despite his vigorous efforts, or perhaps because of them, she had never spoken a word to him.

While still in New York, Guiteau had done all he could to make himself known to anyone of importance in the Republican Party. Every day, he had gone to campaign headquarters or the Fifth Avenue Hotel, a regular meeting place for Republicans. He had been in the hotel when Garfield arrived from Mentor for the meeting that Conkling refused to attend, and he had stayed all day, eagerly greeting senators and cabinet members whenever they happened to pa.s.s through the lobby. " Garfield arrived from Mentor for the meeting that Conkling refused to attend, and he had stayed all day, eagerly greeting senators and cabinet members whenever they happened to pa.s.s through the lobby. "All those leading politicians...knew me," Guiteau would proudly recall, "and were very glad to see me."

Even Chester Arthur had met Guiteau, who had made it a point to seek out the vice presidentelect wherever he happened to be-at campaign headquarters, on the street, even in his home. "I have seen him at least ten times," Arthur would later recall, "possibly as often as twenty times altogether." On several occasions, Arthur's butler opened the door to find Guiteau standing before him, clutching his "Garfield against Hanc.o.c.k" speech. Although he never set foot in the door, Guiteau believed that he had developed a close relationship with Arthur and was "on free-and-easy terms" with him.

The most fail-proof way to secure an appointment, Guiteau had decided, was to convince Arthur to let him stump for Garfield. Finally, Arthur agreed, giving Guiteau an opportunity to deliver a single speech at a small gathering in New York. Guiteau had spoken for only a few minutes, explaining later that it was too hot, he didn't like the torch lights, and there were plenty of other speakers waiting to talk. He was convinced, however, that the speech he gave that night had played a pivotal role in putting Garfield in the White House, and that it should certainly guarantee him a position of prominence in the administration.

Within days of his arrival in Washington, Guiteau was at the White House. As he entered the waiting room, he handed the doorman his calling card and quietly took his place among the dozens of other office seekers, perched on wooden tables and chairs before a large, unlit fireplace. The day Guiteau chose to make his first visit to the White House was, even by the standards of the time, an exceptionally busy one. "No day in 12 years has witnessed such a jam of callers at each Executive Dep't," Garfield would write in his diary that night, complaining that "the Spartan band of disciplined office hunters...drew paper on me as highway men draw pistols."

After waiting for a few hours without seeing anyone, Guiteau put his hat back on and left, disappointed but not discouraged. Since November, he had had a change of heart about the Austrian Mission, and he wrote to Garfield that day to deliver the news. " he had had a change of heart about the Austrian Mission, and he wrote to Garfield that day to deliver the news. "I think I prefer Paris to Vienna, and, if agreeable to you, should be satisfied with the consulship at Paris," he wrote from the lobby of a hotel where he was not staying but which had more impressive stationery than his own. "Senators Blaine, Logan, and Conkling are friendly to me, and I presume my appointment will be promptly confirmed. There is nothing against me. I claim to be a gentleman and Christian."

Guiteau also made the case to Garfield that he had been instrumental in his election. He argued that the speech he had delivered in New York, and had handed to every man of influence in the Republican Party to whom he had access, including Garfield's own vice president, had not only won votes, but had been the source of an idea that was central to the campaign's success. "The inclosed [sic] speech was sent to our leading editors and orators in August," he argued. "Soon thereafter they opened on the rebel war-claim idea idea, and it was this this idea that resulted in your election." idea that resulted in your election."

Not long after Guiteau began visiting the White House, he met Garfield face-to-face. One day, after entering the anteroom as usual and handing the doorman his card, he was led upstairs to Brown's office, which connected directly to the president's office. A moment later, he found himself standing before Garfield, watching silently as he spoke with Levi Morton, one of the men Conkling had forced to resign from the cabinet. Guiteau waited for the two men to finish their conversation, and then, introducing himself as an applicant for the Paris consulship, handed Garfield the campaign speech he had been carrying in his pocket for the past year. On the first page of the speech, he had written "Paris Consulship" and drawn a line between those words and his name, "so that the President would remember what I wanted." "Of course, [Garfield] recognized me at once," Guiteau would later say. He watched with satisfaction as the president glanced down at the speech, and then left, confident that his appointment was now only a matter of time.

After that day, Guiteau quickly became a familiar face at the White House. "His visits were repeated...quite regularly," Brown would remember. "I saw Mr. Guiteau probably fifteen times altogether at various places, about on the street and about in the Executive Mansion and on the grounds." When he wasn't waiting in the president's anteroom, Guiteau was sending notes into him by the doorman, or simply sitting on a bench in Lafayette Square, staring at the White House. When he wasn't waiting in the president's anteroom, Guiteau was sending notes into him by the doorman, or simply sitting on a bench in Lafayette Square, staring at the White House.

Before the end of March, Guiteau found another opportunity to insert himself into Garfield's life, this time even more intimately. The White House held an afternoon reception that was open to anyone who wished to attend, and there was, Garfield would write in his diary that night, a "very large attendance." Guiteau quietly joined the immense crowd, watching as, for two hours, the president and first lady smiled and shook hands with what Lucretia later referred to as "the great roaring world."

Suddenly, Lucretia heard someone say, "How do you do, Mrs. Garfield?" Looking up, she saw a small, thin man in a threadbare suit who, although he had spoken to her with a strange urgency, did not meet her eyes. Guiteau had a strikingly quiet walk, so quiet that people who knew him often complained that he seemed to appear out of nowhere. Now, standing close enough to the first lady to touch her, he told her that he had recently moved to Washington from New York, where he had been " Guiteau had a strikingly quiet walk, so quiet that people who knew him often complained that he seemed to appear out of nowhere. Now, standing close enough to the first lady to touch her, he told her that he had recently moved to Washington from New York, where he had been "one of the men that made Mr. Garfield President." Although Lucretia, a very private woman who dreaded receptions, was "aching in every joint," and "nearly paralyzed" with fatigue, Guiteau would remember her as "chatty and companionable," clearly "quite pleased" to see him. Before giving way to the crush of callers impatiently waiting to meet the first lady, Guiteau leaned in closely to Lucretia, handed her his card, and carefully p.r.o.nounced his name, determined that she would not forget him.

CHAPTER 9

CASUS B BELLI

I would rather be beaten in Right than succeed in Wrong.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

On the morning of May 3, Lucretia woke with a fever. "She is not well...almost a chill," Garfield wrote in his diary that night. When she was not better the next day, he fretted over her, blaming the pressures of his presidency. "Crete," as he called her, "has been too hard worked during the past two months." As the week progressed and Lucretia's fever rose, Garfield's concern turned to alarm. He sent for four different doctors, sat at her bedside late into the night every night, and then stumbled through the day, trying with little success to tamp down a growing terror. "My anxiety for her dominates all my thoughts," he wrote on the night of May 8, "and makes me feel that I am fit for nothing."

Lucretia was the center of Garfield's world. They had met thirty years earlier, while attending the same rural school in Ohio when he was nineteen and she was eighteen. Like Garfield's mother, Lucretia's parents were determined that their children would receive a good education. Her father, Zeb Rudolph, was a farmer and carpenter, but he was also one of the founders of the Western Reserve Eclectic Inst.i.tute. When the school opened in 1850, he enrolled Lucretia in its first cla.s.s, watching with pride as she edited the school magazine, helped to start a literary society, and studied Latin with a discipline, if not a pa.s.sion, that would rival Garfield's.

When Garfield arrived on campus the following year, the boy Lucretia had known in high school transformed before her eyes. She would tell her daughter years later that James at first seemed to her just a "big, shy lad with a shock of unruly hair...as awkward and untutored as he was dead in earnest and determined to learn any and everything that came his way." As he immersed himself in his studies, however, the last traces of his life in the log cabin and on the ca.n.a.l seemed to vanish, not just from his mind, but from his face. "Mental development and culture," Lucretia marveled, "seemed, literally, to chisel fineness and delicacy into features that were, if not rugged, at least unformed." with a shock of unruly hair...as awkward and untutored as he was dead in earnest and determined to learn any and everything that came his way." As he immersed himself in his studies, however, the last traces of his life in the log cabin and on the ca.n.a.l seemed to vanish, not just from his mind, but from his face. "Mental development and culture," Lucretia marveled, "seemed, literally, to chisel fineness and delicacy into features that were, if not rugged, at least unformed."

Although Lucretia and James shared a common background and desire for education, they were very different people. Bighearted and cheerful, Garfield was nearly impossible to resist. Throughout his life, he was just as likely to give a friend, or even a determined enemy, a bear hug as a handshake, and he had an enormous, booming laugh that was unfailingly contagious. Years later, the son of a friend of Garfield's would remember watching as his father and Garfield laughed their hearts out, literally rolling "over and over upon the ground and stirring the very trees with their Olympian laughter."

Lucretia, in stark contrast, was soft-spoken and very private. Her parents, although kind and deeply interested in her education, had never been demonstrative. Zeb Rudolph's neighbors would remember him as being almost without emotion, "never elated and never greatly depressed." Although Lucretia would at times complain that James let the "generous and gushing affection of your warm impulsive nature" affect his good judgment, she worried that she leaned too far in the opposite direction. "The world," she feared, would judge her to be "cold," even "heartless."

Their courtship was long, awkward, and far more a.n.a.lytical than pa.s.sionate. It began with a painfully polite letter from Garfield to Lucretia when he was on a trip to Niagara Falls in 1853. "Please pardon the liberty I take in pointing my pen towards your your name this evening," he began stiffly, "for I have taken in so much scenery today I cannot contain it all myself." As the years pa.s.sed and they slowly moved toward marriage, Garfield waited impatiently for Lucretia to express her love for him, but she remained distant. Finally, in frustration, he wrote to her, " name this evening," he began stiffly, "for I have taken in so much scenery today I cannot contain it all myself." As the years pa.s.sed and they slowly moved toward marriage, Garfield waited impatiently for Lucretia to express her love for him, but she remained distant. Finally, in frustration, he wrote to her, "It is my desire to 'know and be known.' I long to hear from you...to know your heart and open mine to you.... Let your heart take the pen and your hand hold it not back." Lucretia, however, could only ask James to try to understand. " understand. "I do not think I was born for constant caresses, and surely no education of my childhood taught me to need them," she would one day tell him. "I am only sorry that my own quiet and reserve should mean to you a lack of love."

In 1855, when Garfield returned to Ohio from Ma.s.sachusetts, where he was attending Williams College, Lucretia seemed to him as cold and remote as the first time he met her. "For the past year, I had fears before I went away, that she had not that natural warmth of heart which my nature calls so loudly for," he wrote dejectedly in his diary. "It seems as though all my former fears were well founded and that she and I are not like each other in enough respects to make us happy together.... My wild pa.s.sionate heart demands so much." When he visited her again the following day, however, Lucretia bravely handed him her diary. To Garfield's astonishment, it was filled with the love that she had always felt but had never been able to express. "Never before did I see such depths of suffering and such entire devotion of heart as was displayed in her private journal which she allowed me to read," he wrote that night. "For months, when I was away in the midst of my toils, her heart was constantly pouring out its tribute of love."

Although Garfield now believed that Lucretia loved him, when they finally married in 1858, they both knew that he was not yet in love with her. "I am not certain I feel just as I ought toward her," he had admitted in his diary. "I have the most entire confidence in her purity of heart, conscientiousness and trustfulness and truly love her qualities of mind and heart. But there is no delirium of pa.s.sion nor overwhelming power of feeling that draws me to her irresistibly." Lucretia was painfully aware that Garfield's feelings toward her had not deepened over the years, and she was tormented by the thought that he was marrying her because he felt he had to. The summer before their wedding, she wrote miserably to him, "There are hours when my heart almost breaks with the cruel thought that our marriage is based upon the cold stern word duty duty."

If their courtship was difficult, the first years of their marriage were nearly unbearable. Between the Civil War and Garfield's congressional duties in Washington, they spent only five months together during the first five years. The constant separation made it almost impossible for Lucretia to overcome her natural reserve, although she tried in earnest. " Lucretia to overcome her natural reserve, although she tried in earnest. "Before when you were away my heart missed you," she wrote after they had been married for four years. "Now my whole self mourns with it and longs and pines for your presence, my lips for your kisses, my cheek for the warm pressure of yours. In short, I understand what you meant when you used to say, 'I want to be touched!'"

Finally able to express herself in a letter, Lucretia still struggled to show physical affection, and Garfield's frustration deepened until he confessed that he had grave doubts about their marriage. "It seemed a little hard to have you tell me...that you had for several months felt that it was probably a great mistake that we ever tried married life," Lucretia wrote to James while he was in Columbus, working in the state senate, and she was home, expecting their first child. "I am glad you are coming home so soon, but you must come with a light face, or the shadow of those hours of terrible suffering, which are so surely and steadily coming upon me, will steal over me with its chill of death."

Not even Trot, whose birth in 1860 brought James and Lucretia joy, and whose death, just three years later, knit them in a shared grief, could help them overcome their differences. The divide that had always separated them continued to widen until, in 1864, Garfield nearly destroyed any hope they had ever had of happiness together. In the spring of that year, he had an affair with a young widow named Lucia Gilbert Calhoun. He had met her in New York, where she was a reporter for the New York Tribune New York Tribune, and they had fallen in love, the kind of love he had for so long yearned to feel for Lucretia.

A month after meeting Lucia, James went home to Ohio and confessed the affair. Although angry and heartbroken, Lucretia forgave him, demanding only that he end the relationship immediately. Garfield agreed. He was certain he was walking away from his one chance at real love, but he was deeply ashamed of his infidelity. "I believe after all I had rather be respected than loved if I can't be both," he wrote sadly. He thanked Lucretia for her "brave words of good sense," adding, "I hope when you...balance up the whole of my wayward self, you will still find, after the many proper and heavy deductions are made, a small balance left on which you can base some respect and affection."

Garfield feared that, in the wake of his confession, Lucretia would lose all faith in him. Instead, his own feelings began to change. As he watched her bravely endure the pain and heartbreak that he had caused, Garfield suddenly saw Lucretia in a new light. She was not cold and unreachable but strong, steady, and resilient. Slowly, he began to fall in love with his wife.

As the years pa.s.sed, Garfield's love for Lucretia grew until it eclipsed any doubts he had ever had. His letters, which once alternated between terse, cold replies and painfully honest confessions, were now filled with pa.s.sionate declarations of love. Lucretia was finally the object of James's "gushing affection." "We no longer love because we ought to, but because we do," he wrote to her one night from Washington. "The tyranny of our love is sweet. We waited long for his coming, but he has come to stay." A few months later, he again poured out his heart to her. "I here record the most deliberate conviction of my soul," he wrote. "Were every tie that binds me to the men and women of the world severed, and I free to choose out of all the world the sharer of my heart and home and life, I would fly to you and ask you to be mine as you are."

During the Republican convention, Garfield missed Lucretia desperately. "You can never know how much I need you during these days of storm," he wrote to her just days before his nomination. "Every hour I want to go and state some case to your quick intuition. But I feel the presence of your spirit." When he won the nomination, the first thing he did after making his escape from the convention hall was to send Lucretia a telegram. It said simply: "Dear wife, if the result meets your approval, I shall be content."

By the time Garfield became president, Lucretia was completely confident of his love for her. For years, she had waited at home for him, asking when he would return, wondering if he missed her, questioning his devotion. Now she knew that her husband felt her absence as strongly as she did his. "It is almost painful for me to feel that so much of my life and happiness have come to depend upon another than myself," he had written to her. "I want to hear from you so often, and I shall wait and watch with a hungry heart until your dear words reach me."

For Garfield, Lucretia had become the "life of my life," and as he now sat by her bed in the White House, watching as her temperature steadily climbed, he realized with a helpless desperation that he could do nothing to save her. She was " climbed, he realized with a helpless desperation that he could do nothing to save her. She was "the continent, the solid land on which I build all my happiness," he had once told her. "When you are sick, I am like the inhabitants of countries visited by earthquakes. They lose all faith in the eternal order and fixedness of things."

On the night of May 10, after Lucretia had been moved to a room on the north side of the house, "to get her further from the river air," Garfield sat with her until 4:00 a.m. A few hours later, news of her illness appeared in the newspapers, stirring dark memories of President John Tyler's wife, Let.i.tia, who had died in the White House less than forty years earlier. "I am sorry to say that I have grave fears about Mrs. Garfield," James Blaine's wife, Harriet, wrote to her daughter. "She is very sick, and after hearing exactly how she is, I confess I am very uneasy."

Garfield could think of nothing but Lucretia. "I refused to see people on business," he wrote in his diary on May 11. "All my thoughts center in her, in comparison with whom all else fades into insignificance." Having buried two children, he knew far too well the devastation of losing someone he loved. After Trot's death, he had been so paralyzed with grief that he had nearly left Congress. "I try to be cheerful, and plunge into the whirlpool of work which opens before me," he had confided to a friend, "but it seems to me I shall never cease to grieve."

Every day, Garfield consulted with the group of doctors he had gathered around Lucretia. They had come to the conclusion that she was suffering from a combination of exhaustion and malaria. Sixteen years before malaria was finally traced to mosquitoes, Lucretia's doctors did not know what caused the disease, but they did have ways to fight it. They gave her "fever powders," presumably quinine, which had been used to treat malaria in the West since the early 1600s, and bathed her with alcohol and ice water. As Lucretia's fever worsened, rising ominously to 104 degrees, Garfield hovered over her, helping however he could. "If I thought her return to perfect health could be insured by my resigning the Presidency," he wrote to a friend, "I would not hesitate a moment about doing it."

While the White House did what it could to protect Lucretia from the outside world, banning carriages from the grounds and occasionally even closing the front gates, Charles Guiteau inched closer. When he had first submitted his application for an appointment, he had been told, as was every office seeker, that it would be put on file and considered. "In the majority of cases there was not the slightest possibility of any position being granted," a White House employee who helped shepherd callers through the president's anteroom later explained. "It was just the usual human method of saving trouble and avoiding a scene." Guiteau, however, believed that the president was carefully studying his application and that his appointment was only a matter of time. When, after handing the doorman a note for Garfield one day, he was told, "The President says it will be impossible to see you to-day," he seized on the word "to-day." This was Garfield's way, he thought, of telling him that, "as soon as he got Walker [the current consul-general to France] out of the way gracefully then I would be given the office."

While he waited for his appointment, Guiteau survived as he always had. As well as skipping out on board bills, he had a long history of convincing people to lend him money, and he was proud of his straightforward approach. "I will tell you how I do it," he would later explain. "I come right out square with a friend. I do not lie and sneak and do that kind of business, or anything. I say, 'I want to get $25; I want to use a little money'; and the probability is that if he has got the money about him he will pull the money right out and give it to me. That is the way I get my money. I take it and thank him, and go about my business."

The technique had worked often enough that Guiteau was reluctant to abandon it, but he was quickly running out of lenders. In mid-March, he finally tracked down a man named George Maynard, whom he barely knew and had not seen for more than twenty years. He had met Maynard in 1859, when he was a student boarding at Maynard's mother's home in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Maynard had been living in Washington for the past seventeen years, working as an electrician, and knew nothing of Guiteau's life since he had seen him last. He was the perfect person to ask for a loan.

When Guiteau suddenly appeared in Maynard's office, he did not waste time with pleasantries but came quickly to the point. " waste time with pleasantries but came quickly to the point. "Mr. Guiteau came into my office and said that he wanted to borrow $10 for a few days; that he was very hard up for money to pay his board bills," Maynard would later recall. Guiteau told him that he was expecting a check for $150 and would pay him back as soon as he received it. Taking pity on the small, shabbily dressed man, Maynard gave him the money and in return accepted a card on which was written: "March 12th, $10 until the 15th." He would not see Guiteau again until June.

In the meantime, Guiteau went about his solitary life. He had very little contact with people outside of his boardinghouse and the White House waiting room, and no social interaction at all. He had lived this way for most of his adult life, with the surprising exception of the four years he had been married.

Soon after leaving Oneida, Guiteau had met and married a young librarian named Annie Bunn, launching her into the most desperate and frightening period of her life. "I lived," Annie would later say, "in continual anxiety and suspense of mind." Not only was she forced to flee boardinghouse after boardinghouse, often leaving behind her clothing and belongings when her husband did not pay the rent, but she was constantly dunned by his creditors and a string of furious clients whom he had cheated.

Despite the constant humiliations, Annie likely would have stayed with Guiteau had he not treated her so cruelly. If she disagreed with him in the smallest way, he would literally kick her out the door and into the hallway, even if other boarders were walking by. On more occasions than she could count, he wrenched her out of bed in the middle of the night and locked her in a bitterly cold closet until morning. Although Annie was convinced that her husband was "possessed of an evil spirit," it was not until he openly visited a prost.i.tute that she finally filed for divorce.

Had Annie seen Guiteau now, almost ten years after she left him, she would hardly have recognized him. He had always been "very proud and nice and particular about his dress and general appearance," she said. "He always dressed well, wore the best of everything." While Annie begged the landlords her husband had deceived to let her have one of her dresses so that she might have a single change of clothes, Guiteau shopped as though he were a wealthy man. "He would not think that a suit of clothes was fit to wear that did not cost at least sixty or seventy-five dollars," Annie remembered. He would obtain the clothes by paying part of the price up front and then never return to pay the balance. though he were a wealthy man. "He would not think that a suit of clothes was fit to wear that did not cost at least sixty or seventy-five dollars," Annie remembered. He would obtain the clothes by paying part of the price up front and then never return to pay the balance.

After years of living as a traveling evangelist, however, Guiteau no longer had enough money even for a down payment. His clothes were frayed, torn, and too light for the early-spring weather. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands and, in an effort to conceal the fact that he did not have a collar, b.u.t.toned his coat to the very top. While everyone else was wearing boots or heavy shoes, he walked around in rubber sandals. Always a small, slight man, he had grown even thinner and was pale and drawn. To George Maynard, he looked " While everyone else was wearing boots or heavy shoes, he walked around in rubber sandals. Always a small, slight man, he had grown even thinner and was pale and drawn. To George Maynard, he looked "somewhat haggard and weak...as I have seen many a man look when they haven't had a good square meal for two or three days." When Guiteau did have an opportunity for a meal at a boardinghouse, the other guests recalled him eating with a savage determination and a distinct reluctance to pa.s.s the plates. When Guiteau did have an opportunity for a meal at a boardinghouse, the other guests recalled him eating with a savage determination and a distinct reluctance to pa.s.s the plates.

Despite his desperate circ.u.mstances, Guiteau did what he could to give the impression that he was a man of influence and means. When writing letters, he used the stationery either of the well-respected Riggs House, the hotel where Garfield had stayed on the night before his inauguration, or the White House. One day, when a White House staff member refused to give him more stationery, Guiteau slapped one of his enormous business cards down on a table and shouted, "Do you know who I am?... I am one of the men that made Garfield President."

He also continued to try to a.s.sociate himself with powerful men. He found out where John Logan, a Republican senator from Illinois, was staying and took a room in the same boardinghouse. One morning, hearing footsteps in the outer room of his suite, Logan stepped out from his bedroom to find Guiteau sitting in a chair near the door. When he saw the senator, Guiteau quickly stood up, greeted him by name, and handed him a copy of his "Garfield against Hanc.o.c.k" speech. Logan, who had no idea who this strange man was, found himself listening helplessly as Guiteau told him that the speech he was holding had "elected the President of the United States, Mr. Garfield," and that he was now waiting to be appointed consul-general to France. Secretary Blaine, Guiteau said, had promised him the appointment if Logan would give him a recommendation. He then pulled from his pocket a piece of paper on which he had written a three-line recommendation in large print and asked Logan to sign it. Logan declined. " promised him the appointment if Logan would give him a recommendation. He then pulled from his pocket a piece of paper on which he had written a three-line recommendation in large print and asked Logan to sign it. Logan declined. "He did not strike me as a person that I desired to recommend for an office of that character, or for any other office," he would later say. "I treated him as kindly and as politely as I could; but I was very desirous of getting rid of him."

A few days later, however, Guiteau was back. This time, he was more forceful in his request, insisting that, as he had once lived in Chicago, Logan was his senator and so was obliged to recommend him for the position. Again he thrust the handwritten recommendation at Logan. The senator ignored the piece of paper but a.s.sured Guiteau, "The first time that I see the Secretary of State I will mention your case to him." While he did intend to mention Guiteau's application to Blaine, Logan later explained, "I intended to mention it probably in a different way from what he supposed I would.... I must say that I thought there was some derangement of his mental organization."

As was his habit with the president at the White House, Guiteau followed up his frequent visits to the State Department with letters to the secretary of state. Late in March, he wrote to Blaine that it was his understanding that he was "to have a consulship" and that he hoped it was "the consulship at Paris, as that is the only one I care for." After making the argument that he was ent.i.tled to the office and that it should be given to him "as a personal tribute," he ended the letter by suggesting to Blaine that he too owed his position to Garfield's generosity. "I am very glad, personally, that the President selected you for his premier," Guiteau wrote. "It might have been someone else."

In the end, Blaine was the only man to give Guiteau an honest answer. He had received his letters and seen him on dozens of occasions at the State Department, brushing off his persistent questions about the consulship with a terse "We have not got to that yet." So frequent were Guiteau's visits to the State Department that the chief clerk had instructed the messengers not to forward his notes and to do what they could to shield the secretary of state. So frequent were Guiteau's visits to the State Department that the chief clerk had instructed the messengers not to forward his notes and to do what they could to shield the secretary of state.

Finally, after nearly two months of being chased by Guiteau, Blaine had had enough. When Guiteau cornered him one day, the secretary of state abruptly turned and addressed him directly. He told Guiteau that " had had enough. When Guiteau cornered him one day, the secretary of state abruptly turned and addressed him directly. He told Guiteau that "he had, in my opinion, no prospect whatever of receiving" the appointment. Determined to end the matter once and for all, he snapped, "Never speak to me about the Paris consulship again." Guiteau watched in shock as Blaine walked away, and then he returned to his boardinghouse, determined to warn Garfield that his secretary of state was a "wicked man" and that there would be "no peace till you get rid of him."

Blaine forgot Guiteau as soon as he turned his back on him. The war that Conkling had been waging against Garfield's administration had taken a sudden and unexpected turn, and the secretary of state could smell blood. Before Lucretia had fallen ill, Garfield, still trying to find common ground with the Stalwarts, had appointed five of Conkling's men to New York posts. He believed, however, that Grant had made a fatal mistake in surrendering New York to Conkling, and he was not about to put himself in the same position. The day after his appointments of Conkling's men, he announced another appointment. This one was only a single recommendation, but it was for the post that Conkling prized above all others, the one he had bestowed upon Chester Arthur-the collectorship of the New York Customs House. Before Lucretia had fallen ill, Garfield, still trying to find common ground with the Stalwarts, had appointed five of Conkling's men to New York posts. He believed, however, that Grant had made a fatal mistake in surrendering New York to Conkling, and he was not about to put himself in the same position. The day after his appointments of Conkling's men, he announced another appointment. This one was only a single recommendation, but it was for the post that Conkling prized above all others, the one he had bestowed upon Chester Arthur-the collectorship of the New York Customs House.

Shocked and enraged, Conkling spluttered that the nomination was "perfidy without peril." Not only had Garfield not consulted him, but the man he had chosen, Judge William Robertson, was high on Conkling's long list of enemies. At the Republican convention, Robertson had been the first delegate to abandon Grant, thus, Conkling believed, causing the hemorrhaging of votes that had ultimately resulted in Grant's defeat. Robertson had, Conkling raged, "treacherously betray[ed] a sacred trust," and he demanded that Garfield withdraw the nomination. Not only had Garfield not consulted him, but the man he had chosen, Judge William Robertson, was high on Conkling's long list of enemies. At the Republican convention, Robertson had been the first delegate to abandon Grant, thus, Conkling believed, causing the hemorrhaging of votes that had ultimately resulted in Grant's defeat. Robertson had, Conkling raged, "treacherously betray[ed] a sacred trust," and he demanded that Garfield withdraw the nomination.

By nominating Robertson, Garfield knew, he had given Conkling his "casus belli," his justification for war, but the president was prepared for battle, and confident of victory. "Let who will, fight me," Garfield wrote in his diary after making the nomination. This battle was about more than Robertson or even Conkling. It was about the power of the presidency. " than Robertson or even Conkling. It was about the power of the presidency. "I owe something to the dignity of my office," he wrote. This post was critical to the nation's financial strength, and he was not about to let someone else fill it. "Shall the princ.i.p.al port of entry in which more than 90% of all our customs duties are collected be under the direct control of the Administration or under the local control of a factional Senator," he asked. "I think I win in this contest."

The American people agreed. Garfield's refusal to back down was widely hailed as a courageous and necessary stand against a dangerous man. Even Conkling's own state turned against him. Of the more than one hundred newspapers in the state of New York, fewer than twenty supported their senior senator, the rest lining up behind the president. Garfield, the Of the more than one hundred newspapers in the state of New York, fewer than twenty supported their senior senator, the rest lining up behind the president. Garfield, the New York Herald New York Herald argued, " argued, "has recognized Republicans as members of a great party and not of mean factions. He has chosen men for office because of their fitness and ability, and not because they have stuck to the political fortunes of loved leaders." Conkling, in stark contrast, "would be Caesar or nothing." He "makes the mistake of supposing that he, and not Gen. Garfield, was elected President," the newspaper chided. "He declares war, and the President accepts the situation."

Conkling, however, was much more experienced at political warfare than Garfield. Every time he had gone into battle, no matter how bruising, he had emerged even stronger than before. He seemed unaffected even by highly public humiliations, shrugging off scandals that would have ruined another man. Just two years earlier, he had been caught in a brazen affair with Kate Chase Sprague, the wife of William Sprague, a U.S. senator and former governor of Rhode Island, and daughter of Salmon P. Chase, secretary of the treasury under Lincoln and the chief justice of the United States. Newspapers had gleefully reported that Senator Sprague had chased Conkling from his home with a pistol. In the end, however, the only reputation that had been damaged by the scandal was Kate's. Just two years earlier, he had been caught in a brazen affair with Kate Chase Sprague, the wife of William Sprague, a U.S. senator and former governor of Rhode Island, and daughter of Salmon P. Chase, secretary of the treasury under Lincoln and the chief justice of the United States. Newspapers had gleefully reported that Senator Sprague had chased Conkling from his home with a pistol. In the end, however, the only reputation that had been damaged by the scandal was Kate's.

It was not until early May, as Lucretia lay near death, that Conkling finally overreached. Fearing that public sympathy for her would derail his campaign against Garfield, Conkling decided that it was time to call in some favors. He had long before solicited the support of James Gordon Bennett, the founder, editor, and publisher of the New York Herald New York Herald. As Bennett was then out of the country, his managing editor, Thomas Connery, would have to do. Conkling sent word to Connery that he wished to meet with him in Washington. Connery realized that he was about to step into a snake pit, but he had little choice but to do as Conkling asked. Bennett was then out of the country, his managing editor, Thomas Connery, would have to do. Conkling sent word to Connery that he wished to meet with him in Washington. Connery realized that he was about to step into a snake pit, but he had little choice but to do as Conkling asked.

When Connery arrived at Conkling's house on the corner of Fourteenth and F Streets, he was received not by the senator but by the vice president of the United States. Although Chester Arthur was now part of Garfield's administration, his allegiance to Conkling was stronger, and more obvious, than it had ever been. He continued to share a home with him, frequently joined him on long fishing trips, and did not hesitate to criticize Garfield at every opportunity. "Garfield has not been square, nor honorable, nor truthful with Conkling," Arthur told a reporter. "It's a hard thing to say of a president of the United States, but it is, unfortunately, only the truth." After Robertson's appointment, Arthur had even signed a pet.i.tion of protest against the president. After Robertson's appointment, Arthur had even signed a pet.i.tion of protest against the president.

Connery, unsure why he was there and extremely ill at ease, quickly asked Arthur what Conkling wanted. The vice president, he would later recall, "smiled and looked at me as if doubting the innocence of my question." Soon after, Conkling arrived and launched into a "lengthy and impa.s.sioned harangue" against Garfield, at the end of which he asked Connery to pledge the support of the Herald Herald in his war against the president. Connery agreed, although he knew there was not much he could do to save Conkling from himself. in his war against the president. Connery agreed, although he knew there was not much he could do to save Conkling from himself.

While Conkling and Arthur carefully plotted their next move, Garfield, well aware that he was under attack, gave his enemies little thought. Lucretia had slowly begun to recover, and he was overwhelmed with grat.i.tude. On May 15, he finally allowed himself to believe that "G.o.d will be merciful to us and let her stay." Her fever had fallen to just over 100 degrees, and Garfield's "hope almost reached triumph." Over breakfast that morning, the normally happy, boisterous family laughed for the first time since Lucretia had fallen ill. "The little ones have been very brave but very still," Garfield wrote. "The house has been very still."

The Capitol, on the other hand, had been roiling. The day after Lucretia began to rally, Conkling made a last, desperate attempt to regain the upper hand from a president who had dared to defy him. The idea came to him from Senator Tom Platt, a Stalwart who had, months earlier, promised to confirm any appointment Garfield made in exchange for help in winning a Senate seat. Now, expected to vote for Robertson, Platt feared Conkling's wrath. The only honorable response to Garfield's outrageous nomination, he told Conkling, was to " came to him from Senator Tom Platt, a Stalwart who had, months earlier, promised to confirm any appointment Garfield made in exchange for help in winning a Senate seat. Now, expected to vote for Robertson, Platt feared Conkling's wrath. The only honorable response to Garfield's outrageous nomination, he told Conkling, was to "rebuke the President by immediately turning in our resignations." The New York legislature would quickly reinstate them, and they would return to the Senate triumphant.

It was a bold, dramatic move, and Conkling, who valued showmanship nearly as much as he did power, seized on it. On the morning of May 16, after the chaplain finished the morning prayer, Arthur, who had entered the Senate chamber late and visibly nervous, handed the clerk a note. Few people in the hall even noticed the exchange, and those who did a.s.sumed it was an ordinary, uninteresting communication. As the clerk began to read, however, those who were only half listening, idly sifting through their mail, suddenly sat straight up in their seats, a look of pure astonishment on their faces. The letter was addressed to Arthur, and it read, "Sir, Will you please announce to the Senate that my resignation as Senator of the United States from the State of New-York has been forwarded to the Governor of the State. I have the honor to be, with great respect, your obedient servant, Roscoe Conkling."

The brief note, one reporter wrote, "seemed to stupefy" everyone in the chamber, and it quickly caused a "sensation." The reaction that followed, however, was not at all what Conkling had envisioned. After recovering from their initial shock, Stalwarts in the Senate merely mumbled their support, while delighted Half-Breeds, hardly believing their luck, immediately went on the attack. This was nothing more than a stunt, they jeered, and an impotent one at that. Conkling, scoffed one congressman, was just "a great big baby boohooing because he can't have all the cake."

When he was told of Conkling's resignation, Garfield simply shrugged. It was, he wrote in his diary, "a very weak attempt at the heroic.... I go on without disturbance." His first concern was for Lucretia. Any time and energy he had left were put toward creating a balanced administration and freeing himself from office seekers so he would have time to do his job. A few days later, he announced that he was limiting his calling hours to one A few days later, he announced that he was limiting his calling hours to one hour a day, from 12:00 noon to 1:00 p.m. Conkling, he knew, was still capable of doing tremendous damage, but Garfield was no longer interested in compromise. " hour a day, from 12:00 noon to 1:00 p.m. Conkling, he knew, was still capable of doing tremendous damage, but Garfield was no longer interested in compromise. "Having done all I fairly could to avoid a fight," he wrote, "I now fight to the end."

As the final, fatal blow had been self-inflicted, Conkling's long political career came to a shockingly swift end. Immediately following their dramatic resignations, Conkling and Platt left for New York. After years of controlling every aspect of New York politics, and every man involved in it, Conkling was confident that the legislature at Albany would reelect them both. However, on the last day of May, the same day that Lucretia's doctors finally p.r.o.nounced her well-telling Garfield, "with emphasis, it is ended"-both men were soundly defeated. Conkling received just a third of the Republican votes, and Platt six fewer than Conkling. "Stung with mortification at his inability to control the President, and believing that the people of this State shared his disappointment," wrote the New York Times New York Times, Conkling "has thrown away his power, destroyed his own influence."

For the first time since his nomination nearly a year earlier, Garfield was hopeful. Lucretia, who, just days earlier, had been so close to death, was every day gaining in health and strength. No longer forced to surrender half his day to the demands of office seekers, he suddenly had time to think and plan. And, in a turn of events that no one could have predicted, the legendary senator who had declared himself Garfield's enemy, and whose iron grip on his administration had threatened to destroy it before it had even begun, was alone and powerless in Albany. Three months after his inauguration, Garfield was finally free to begin his presidency.

"A deep strong current of happy peace," he wrote that night, "flows through every heart in the household."

CHAPTER 10

THE DARK DREAMS OF PRESIDENTS

History is but the unrolled scroll of Prophecy.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

The idea came to Guiteau suddenly, "like a flash," he would later say. On May 18, two days after Conkling's dramatic resignation, Guiteau, "depressed and perplexed...wearied in mind and body," had climbed into bed at 8:00 p.m., much earlier than usual. He had been lying on his cot in his small, rented room for an hour, unable to sleep, his mind churning, when he was struck by a single, pulsing thought: "If the President was out of the way every thing would go better."

Guiteau was certain the idea had not come from his own, feverish mind. It was a divine inspiration, a message from G.o.d. He was, he believed, in a unique position to recognize divine inspiration when it occurred because it had happened to him before. Even before the wreck of the steamship Stonington Stonington, he had been inspired, he said, to join the Oneida Community, to leave so that he might start a religious newspaper, and to become a traveling evangelist. Each time G.o.d had called him, he had answered.