Destiny of the Republic Part 5

This time, for the first time, he hesitated. Despite his certainty that the message had come directly from G.o.d, he did not want to listen. The next morning, when the thought returned "with renewed force," he recoiled from it. "I was kept horrified," he said, "kept throwing it off." Wherever he went and whatever he did, however, the idea stayed with him. "It kept growing upon me, pressing me, goading me."

Guiteau had "no ill-will to the President," he insisted. In fact, he believed that he had given Garfield every opportunity to save his own life. He was certain that G.o.d wanted Garfield out of the way because he was a danger to the Republican Party and, ultimately, the American people. As Conkling's war with Garfield had escalated, Guiteau wrote to the president repeatedly, advising him that the best way to respond to the senator's demands was to give in to them. " In fact, he believed that he had given Garfield every opportunity to save his own life. He was certain that G.o.d wanted Garfield out of the way because he was a danger to the Republican Party and, ultimately, the American people. As Conkling's war with Garfield had escalated, Guiteau wrote to the president repeatedly, advising him that the best way to respond to the senator's demands was to give in to them. "It seems to me that the only way out of this difficulty is to withdraw Mr. R.," he wrote, referring to Garfield's appointment of Judge Robertson to run the New York Customs House. "I am on friendly terms with Senator Conkling and the rest of our Senators, but I write this on my own account and in the spirit of a peacemaker."

Guiteau also felt that he had done all he could to warn Garfield about Blaine. After the secretary of state had snapped at him outside of the State Department, he bitterly recounted the exchange in a letter to Garfield. "Until Sat.u.r.day I supposed Mr. Blaine was my friend in the matter of the Paris consulship," he wrote, still wounded by the memory. "'Never speak to me again,' said Mr. Blaine, Sat.u.r.day, 'on the Paris consulship as long as you live.' Heretofore he has been my friend."

Even after his divine inspiration, Guiteau continued to appeal to Garfield. On May 23, he again wrote to the president, advising him to demand Blaine's "immediate resignation." "I have been trying to be your friend," he wrote darkly. "I do not know whether you appreciate it or not." Garfield would be wise to listen to him, he warned, "otherwise you and the Republican party will come to grief. I will see you in the morning if I can and talk with you."

Guiteau did not see Garfield the next morning, or any day after that. Unknown to him, he had been barred from the president's office. Even among the strange and strikingly persistent office seekers that filled Garfield's anteroom every day, Guiteau had stood out. Brown, Garfield's private secretary, had long before relegated Guiteau's letters to what was known as "the eccentric file," but he continued to welcome him to the White House with the same courtesy he extended to every other caller. That did not change until Guiteau's eccentricity and doggedness turned into belligerence. Finally, after a heated argument with one of the president's ushers that ended with Guiteau sitting in a corner of the waiting room, glowering, Brown issued orders that " room, glowering, Brown issued orders that "he should be quietly kept away."

Soon after, Guiteau stopped going to the White House altogether. He gave up trying to secure an appointment, and he no longer fought the press of divine inspiration. For two weeks, he had prayed to G.o.d to show him that he had misunderstood the message he had received that night. "That is the way I test the Deity," he would later explain. "When I feel the pressure upon me to do a certain thing and I have any doubt about it I keep praying that the Deity may stay it in some way if I am wrong." Despite his prayers and constant vigilance, he had received no such sign. "That is the way I test the Deity," he would later explain. "When I feel the pressure upon me to do a certain thing and I have any doubt about it I keep praying that the Deity may stay it in some way if I am wrong." Despite his prayers and constant vigilance, he had received no such sign.

By the end of May, Guiteau had given himself up entirely to his new obsession. Alone in his room, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, he pored over newspaper accounts of the battle between Conkling and the White House, fixating on any criticism of Garfield, real or implied. "I kept reading the papers and kept being impressed," he remembered, "and the idea kept bearing and bearing and bearing down upon me." Finally, on June 1, thoroughly convinced of "the divinity of the inspiration," he made up his mind. He would kill the president.

The next day, Guiteau began to prepare. Although he believed he was doing G.o.d's work, he had been driven for so long by a desire for fame and prestige that his first thought was not how he would a.s.sa.s.sinate the president, but the attention he would receive after he did. "I thought just what people would talk and thought what a tremendous excitement it would create," he wrote, "and I kept thinking about it all week."

With his forthcoming celebrity in mind, Guiteau decided that his first task should be to edit a religious book he had written several years ago called The Truth: A Companion to the Bible The Truth: A Companion to the Bible. The publicity it would bring the book, he believed, was one of the princ.i.p.al reasons G.o.d wanted him to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president. "Two points will be accomplished," he wrote. "It will save the Republic, and create a demand for my book, The Truth.... This book was not written for money. It was written to save souls. In order to attract public attention the book needs the notice the President's removal will give it." There would be a great demand for the book following Garfield's death, he reasoned, so it should be " will give it." There would be a great demand for the book following Garfield's death, he reasoned, so it should be "in proper shape."

As was true of most things in Guiteau's life, The Truth The Truth was largely stolen. In a single-sentence preface, he insisted that " was largely stolen. In a single-sentence preface, he insisted that "a new line of thought runs through this book, and the Author asks for it a careful attention." There was, however, nothing new about The Truth The Truth. The ideas, most of them copied verbatim, came from a book called The Berean The Berean, which John Humphrey Noyes, the founder of Oneida, had written in 1847, and which Guiteau's father had treasured, believing that it was "better than the Bible."

Even The Truth The Truth's publication had been fraudulent. Guiteau had tried to persuade D. Lothrop & Co., one of the most respected publishers in Boston, to publish the book, but they had declined. Determined to see The Truth The Truth in print, and for it to have the illusion, if not the reality, of respectability, he hired a printing company to produce a thousand copies, all with "D. Lothrop and Company" on the binding and cover page. After trying unsuccessfully to sell the book for 50 cents apiece on the streets of Boston, he left town without paying the printer. in print, and for it to have the illusion, if not the reality, of respectability, he hired a printing company to produce a thousand copies, all with "D. Lothrop and Company" on the binding and cover page. After trying unsuccessfully to sell the book for 50 cents apiece on the streets of Boston, he left town without paying the printer.

The next stage of Guiteau's plan was more difficult than the first. If he was to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president, he realized, he would need a gun. Guiteau knew nothing about guns. Not only had he never owned a gun, he had never even fired one. On June 6, he left his boardinghouse and walked to a sporting goods store that he had spotted on the corner of Fifteenth and F Streets, on the ground floor of a tavern. Upon opening the door, his eyes immediately fell on a showcase that held a selection of revolvers. He walked directly to the case, pointed to the largest gun, and asked the store's owner, John O'Meara, if he could hold it. He "did not call it by name or ask for any special pistol," O'Meara would later recall. "He examined it carefully, and inquired as to its accuracy, and made a few commonplace remarks." After a few minutes, Guiteau handed the revolver back to O'Meara and told him that he would return in a few days.

Two days later, George Maynard, the man from whom Guiteau had borrowed $10 three months earlier, was at work when he looked up to find the small, thin man standing once more in his office. He had walked in so quietly that Maynard had not even heard him. Looking at Guiteau, he noticed that he held his head at an unusual angle, tilted slightly forward. " "He had a peculiar manner," Maynard would later say, "a peculiar att.i.tude, a peculiar walk." What struck Maynard most of all, however, was the desperation he saw in the man standing before him. "The princ.i.p.al thing," he remembered, "was that he looked hungry."

Guiteau explained that he had received the $150 he had been expecting in March, but had used it to pay other bills. He was now, he said, awaiting an even larger check, this one for $500. In the meantime, he needed money to pay his board bill. If Maynard would give him $15, he would pay him back the full $25 as soon as he received his next windfall. Although by this point Maynard could not have had any hope of being repaid, he was, as Guiteau knew, "a good fellow." Three minutes after he had walked in the door, Guiteau left with enough money to buy a gun.

That same day, Guiteau returned to John O'Meara's shop, as he had promised he would. The last time he was there, he had seen two revolvers that interested him-one with a wooden handle that he could have for nine dollars, and another that cost a dollar more but had an ivory handle. He was drawn toward the more expensive gun, picturing it on display in the State Department's library. Cradling the revolver in his hands, he asked O'Meara about its force. It was, the shop owner said, a self-c.o.c.king .44 caliber British Bulldog. "One of the strongest pistols made."

After striking a deal with O'Meara-ten dollars for the revolver, a box of cartridges, and a two-bladed, pearl-handled penknife that had caught his eye-Guiteau asked him where he could take the gun to test it. O'Meara warned Guiteau that he would need to leave the city limits, and suggested he try the river's edge. Taking his advice, Guiteau went to the Potomac one evening and shot ten cartridges with his new gun, sometimes aiming for the river, other times trying to hit a sapling growing nearby. Everything about the gun, from the feel of it in his hand to the damage it wrought, was utterly new and unfamiliar to him. "I knew nothing about it," he would later say, "no more than a child."

In his letters and, he would later insist, his thoughts, Guiteau never referred to what he was about to do as murder, or even a.s.sa.s.sination. He was simply removing the president-in his mind, an act not of violence or cruelty but practicality. Garfield was a danger to his party and his country, and G.o.d had asked Guiteau to correct the situation. " was simply removing the president-in his mind, an act not of violence or cruelty but practicality. Garfield was a danger to his party and his country, and G.o.d had asked Guiteau to correct the situation. "The Lord inspired me to attempt to remove the President in preference to some one else, because I had the brains and the nerve to do the work," he would explain. "The Lord always employs the best material to do His work."

Guiteau had no illusions about what would happen to him after he a.s.sa.s.sinated the president. He had been twenty-three years old when John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln, and he could not have forgotten the manhunt that had led to Booth's death. Prepared to kill for G.o.d but not to die, his only other option, he suspected, was imprisonment. As he had spent a month in the Tombs, he knew how bad jail could be. He felt, therefore, that it would be wise to make a trip to the District Jail. "I wanted to see what kind of a jail it was," he would later say. "I knew nothing about where it was, nor the character of the building, nor anything."

One Sat.u.r.day morning, Guiteau took a streetcar from the Riggs Hotel as far as he could and then walked another three-quarters of a mile before reaching the prison. Walking "leisurely" to the warden's office, he rang the doorbell and waited calmly. When a guard arrived, he asked for a tour. Although the jail did not allow tours on Sat.u.r.days, Guiteau felt that he had gotten a good enough look at the building. "I thought it was a very excellent jail," he said. "It is the best jail in America, I understand."

Satisfied that the prison where he would be taken was far superior to the Tombs, Guiteau had nothing left to do but track down his prey. All the time and energy he had once spent trying to secure an appointment, he now devoted to following Garfield. Guiteau knew that the president, who had no Secret Service agents and was in frequent contact with the public, was an easy target, especially outside the White House. "It would not do to go to the White House and attempt it, because there were too many of his employes about," Guiteau wrote. "I looked around for several days to try and get a good chance at him."

Finally, Guiteau chose the one place in Washington where Garfield had always felt safe and at peace: his church. Killing the president in church was not sacrilegious, Guiteau argued. On the contrary, "there could not possibly be a better place to remove a man than at his devotions."

Garfield, moreover, could be counted on to attend church. A member of the Disciples of Christ since childhood, and himself a minister, he had faithfully attended the Vermont Avenue Christian Church in Washington since he entered Congress nearly twenty years earlier. A member of the Disciples of Christ since childhood, and himself a minister, he had faithfully attended the Vermont Avenue Christian Church in Washington since he entered Congress nearly twenty years earlier. He had been an active and involved parishioner, teaching Sunday school and, in 1869, helping the congregation raise enough money to build a larger church. The church's pastor, Reverend S. D. Power, said that he felt G.o.d had " He had been an active and involved parishioner, teaching Sunday school and, in 1869, helping the congregation raise enough money to build a larger church. The church's pastor, Reverend S. D. Power, said that he felt G.o.d had "a wise and holy purpose" for Garfield "and had raised him up as a Christian leader of a great people."

Guiteau knew exactly where Garfield's church was because he had been there before. Several months earlier, drawn to the church out of curiosity, he had watched from one of the pews as Garfield entered with Lucretia and their five children. Garfield had missed many Sundays since then, choosing instead to stay home with Lucretia during her illness. As she had begun to recover, however, he had come back, grateful to the congregation for their many prayers.

Guiteau returned to Garfield's church on June 12. The sermon had already begun, and Garfield had settled into a pew next to Lucretia's doctor and the doctor's wife, when Guiteau stepped inside. Although he was late, he paused at the door, scanning the congregation for the instantly recognizable figure of the president, who was taller and had broader shoulders than nearly any other man in the church. Quickly locating him, Guiteau noted that he was sitting next to an open window that stood about three feet from the ground. "That," he judged, "would be a good chance to get him." By standing just outside the window, Guiteau thought, he could aim the gun so that the bullet would travel through the back of the president's head and into the ceiling without endangering anyone around him. "That," he judged, "would be a good chance to get him." By standing just outside the window, Guiteau thought, he could aim the gun so that the bullet would travel through the back of the president's head and into the ceiling without endangering anyone around him.

Although he had his revolver in his pocket and, had he stepped outside the church, a clear shot through the window, Guiteau stayed seated throughout the sermon. It was, Garfield would later write, "a very stupid sermon on a very great subject." Guiteau apparently agreed with the president. At one point, no longer able to restrain his frustration, he shouted out, "What think ye of Christ?" Garfield heard Guiteau's outburst and mentioned it in his diary that night, referring to him as "a dull young man, with a loud voice, trying to pound noise into the question."

When the sermon was over, Guiteau had missed his opportunity, but he had not given up on his plan. After watching Garfield step into a carriage and ride away, Guiteau walked to the side of the church to examine the window near which the president had been sitting. Standing in the summer sun, Guiteau could picture the moment when he would raise his gun and take aim. "Next Sunday," he thought, "I would certainly shoot him."

Before the next Sunday sermon, however, another opportunity presented itself to Guiteau. On Thursday he read in the newspaper that the president would soon be traveling to New Jersey with his wife. That same night, Garfield mentioned the trip in his diary, writing that, in an attempt to help Lucretia's recovery, "we have concluded to take her to the sea sh.o.r.e for its bracing air." The family, Guiteau knew, would be leaving from the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad Station the following Sat.u.r.day.

A train station, Guiteau thought, might even be better than a church. That Sat.u.r.day morning he woke up around six, put his gun in his pocket, and walked down to the Potomac to practice his aim one last time. After shooting off another ten cartridges, he made his way to the train station. He arrived before Garfield, and so was able to watch as the president stepped out of the carriage with Lucretia.

It was the sight of the first lady, Guiteau would later say, that prevented him from carrying out G.o.d's work that day. "I was all ready," he said. "My mind was all made up; I had all my papers with me; I had all the arrangements made to shoot him." When he saw Lucretia, however, he could not go through with it. She looked "so thin," he said, "and she clung so tenderly to the President's arm, that I did not have the heart to fire on him." Garfield walked right past his would-be a.s.sa.s.sin, his attention focused on Lucretia.

After returning to his boardinghouse that day, Guiteau wrote a letter to the American people. He had, he explained, "intended to remove the President this morning at the depot," but after seeing Garfield with Lucretia, he decided it would be best to "take him alone." Although he wanted to spare the first lady the horror of witnessing her husband's fatal shooting, Guiteau argued that, when he did kill the president, his death would not be any more painful to Lucretia because it was the result of a.s.sa.s.sination. "It will be no worse for Mrs. Garfield, to part with her husband this way, than by natural death," Guiteau reasoned. "He is liable to go at any time any way." a.s.sa.s.sination. "It will be no worse for Mrs. Garfield, to part with her husband this way, than by natural death," Guiteau reasoned. "He is liable to go at any time any way."

Garfield arrived back in Washington on June 27, in the midst of a heavy storm. He had been reluctant to leave Lucretia, worrying that the "sea air is too strong for her," but he was thrilled by the progress she had made. He also knew that he would see her again soon. In less than a week, while his two youngest boys headed to Ohio for the summer, he would leave for New England with his older sons. The plan was to meet up with Lucretia and Mollie and then go on to Ma.s.sachusetts, where they would attend his twenty-fifth cla.s.s reunion at Williams College and help Harry and Jim settle in for the upcoming academic year.

Before Garfield could leave, however, he needed to meet with his cabinet. With Conkling out of the way, he had finally been able to establish a strong, if at times contentious, cabinet, which, as he had always intended, included Stalwarts as well as Half-Breeds. The most prominent of the Stalwarts was Robert Todd Lincoln, Garfield's secretary of war and Abraham Lincoln's oldest and only surviving son.

On June 30, as the cabinet was about to adjourn for the last time before the president's trip, Garfield suddenly turned to Lincoln with an unusual question. He had heard, he said, that his father had had a prophetic dream shortly before his a.s.sa.s.sination, and he wondered if Robert would describe it. Although a private and reserved man, Lincoln agreed to tell the story.

After he had fallen asleep late one night, Abraham Lincoln had had a dream in which, he later told his wife and an old friend, there was a "death-like stillness about me." Within the stillness, however, he could hear "subdued sobs." Leaving his room, he searched the White House for the source of the weeping, but every room he entered was empty. Finally, stepping into the East Room, he saw a coffin that was guarded by soldiers. "Who is dead in the White House?" he asked. "Why, don't you know?" one of the soldiers replied. "The President has been a.s.sa.s.sinated."

Lincoln had believed deeply in dreams, seeing in them omens that he dared not ignore. After having "an ugly dream" about their son Tad, he had advised his wife to put Tad's pistol away. Another time, while in Richmond, Virginia, he had asked her to return to Washington after he dreamed that the White House was on fire. When questioned about his belief in dreams, Lincoln had often cited the Bible as support. He pointed to Jacob's dream in Genesis 28, as well as several other chapters in the Old and New Testaments. These pa.s.sages, he said, "reveal G.o.d's meaning in dreams."

Although Garfield did not share Lincoln's reverence for dreams, he had had a few that seemed strange or powerful enough to record. In late January, little more than a month before his inauguration, he had written down a dream he had had in which Chester Arthur drowned. He and a close friend, General David Swaim, had escaped a sinking ship, only to watch Arthur, who was lying on a couch, very pale and obviously ill, disappear under the surface of the water. "I started to plunge into the water to save Arthur," Garfield wrote, "but Swaim held me, and said he cannot be saved, and you will perish if you attempt it."

It was his own death, however, that was often on Garfield's mind. Although he was by nature a cheerful and optimistic man, like Lincoln, he had long felt that he would die an early death. When his friends tried to talk him out of this grim conviction, his only answer was that the thought seemed to him "as foolish as it does to you." Nonetheless, he could not shake it. "I do not know why it haunts me," he said. "Indeed, it is a thing that is wholly involuntary on my part, and when I try the hardest not to think of it it haunts me most." The feeling, he said, came to him most often at night, "when all is quiet." It was then that his mind would turn to his father, who died "in the strength of his manhood," when his wife and children needed him most. At those times, Garfield said, "I feel it so strong upon me that the vision is in the form of a warning that I cannot treat lightly."

The night after his cabinet meeting, July 1, Garfield had dinner with Captain Charles E. Henry, the marshal of the District of Columbia, and invited his guest to join him in the library afterward. As the conversation drifted, Henry would later recall, Garfield began to talk about the times in his life, particularly his boyhood, when he had miraculously escaped death. Just days before, he had received word that his uncle Thomas Garfield had been killed when his carriage was struck by a train, and the tragedy had brought back not just memories of his own near-drowning years before on the ca.n.a.l, but the deaths of his father and children, and Lucretia's recent, nearly fatal illness. As Henry sat in the candle-lit library, listening to Garfield, he realized that he " in his life, particularly his boyhood, when he had miraculously escaped death. Just days before, he had received word that his uncle Thomas Garfield had been killed when his carriage was struck by a train, and the tragedy had brought back not just memories of his own near-drowning years before on the ca.n.a.l, but the deaths of his father and children, and Lucretia's recent, nearly fatal illness. As Henry sat in the candle-lit library, listening to Garfield, he realized that he "had never heard him speak...in the way he did that night." Garfield was, Henry said, "undoubtedly dwelling upon the uncertainty of life."

After Henry left, Garfield, wishing to talk to Blaine, decided to walk to the secretary of state's house, just a few blocks away. As the president stepped out of the White House, Charles Guiteau, sitting on a park bench across the street in Lafayette Park, looked up. When he saw Garfield, he stood and began to follow him, staying on the opposite side of the street. He had been sitting in the same park two nights earlier and had watched as Garfield left the White House by carriage. After half an hour had pa.s.sed and the president had not returned, Guiteau had decided to "let the matter drop for the night." Now, as he shadowed Garfield, he removed the loaded revolver from his pocket, carrying it stiffly at his side.

When Garfield reached Blaine's house, Guiteau stepped back into the shadows of a hotel alley. Happening to glance out a window, Harriet Blaine caught sight of the president and ran to open the door. As he waited for Blaine, Garfield gave Harriet a present-a bound and signed copy of his inaugural address-and talked to her about the trip he would be making the following day. As he waited for Blaine, Garfield gave Harriet a present-a bound and signed copy of his inaugural address-and talked to her about the trip he would be making the following day.

When Blaine finally appeared, he and Garfield stepped out together for a walk. From the alley, Guiteau, who had pa.s.sed the time examining his gun and wiping it down, watched as the two men walked down the street arm in arm, their heads close together as they spoke. Garfield's camaraderie with his secretary of state enraged Guiteau, proving, he said, that "Mr. Garfield had sold himself body and soul to Blaine."

Guiteau followed Blaine and Garfield all the way to the White House, his gun at his side. He could have easily killed either man at any moment, but he never raised the revolver. After watching the president disappear inside the White House, he walked back to his boardinghouse through the dark streets of Washington. The image of Garfield and Blaine " dark streets of Washington. The image of Garfield and Blaine "engaged in the most earnest conversation" haunted him, and the hesitancy he had shown for weeks hardened into resolve. He would not let another opportunity to kill the president pa.s.s without taking it. "My mind," he would later say, "was perfectly clear."

CHAPTER 11

"A DESPERATE D DEED"

There are times in the history of men and nations, when they stand so near the veil that separates mortals and immortals, time from eternity, and men from their G.o.d, that they can almost hear their breathings and feel the pulsations of the heart of the infinite.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

On the morning of July 2, Harry and Jim Garfield were still in bed when their father bounded into their room, a broad smile on his handsome face. Singing "I Mixed Those Babies Up," from his favorite song in the new Gilbert and Sullivan opera H.M.S. Pinafore H.M.S. Pinafore, he plucked his teenage sons out of bed, tucked one under each arm, and swung them around "as if we were in fact two babies," Jim would later recall. Wriggling free, Jim turned a flip over the end of his bed and said triumphantly to his father, "You are President of the United States but you can't do that." To his sons' astonishment and delight, Garfield, six feet tall and just a few months shy of his fiftieth birthday, not only did the flip but then hopped across the room balanced only on his fingers and toes. To his sons' astonishment and delight, Garfield, six feet tall and just a few months shy of his fiftieth birthday, not only did the flip but then hopped across the room balanced only on his fingers and toes.

Despite the strain of the past year, Garfield still looked strong, vigorous, and, on this day, thoroughly happy. Each blow-from his unexpected and unwanted nomination to the battle with Conkling to Lucretia's illness-had taken its toll, but he remained the man he had always been. "There are a few additional lines about the eyes, perhaps," a reporter for the New York Tribune New York Tribune noted, "but he wears his old robust hearty frank look, stands straight as a soldier, and greets his friends with the same cordial, strong, magnetic grip of the hand." noted, "but he wears his old robust hearty frank look, stands straight as a soldier, and greets his friends with the same cordial, strong, magnetic grip of the hand."

After rousing his sons, Garfield had breakfast with his private secretary, who had just returned from a trip to London that Garfield had arranged. "The work of the campaign and the pressure of the first three months at the White House had made pretty severe inroads on my vitality," Brown admitted. When Garfield needed someone to shepherd $6million in U.S. bonds to London, therefore, he had sent his young friend.

The president had been delighted to give the opportunity to Brown, who had come from a family of modest means and had traveled very little, but he was happy to have him back. Brown had become essential not just to Garfield but to everyone who came into contact with him. Despite the fact that he was the youngest man ever to hold the office of private secretary to the president, he had, in the words of one journalist, "the tact and ability of age and experience." As well as organizing Garfield's voluminous correspondence and personal papers, he made arrangements for presidential receptions and dinners, attended to the countless problems that occurred each day in the White House, and oversaw the entire staff. He had even impressed a hard-bitten political reporter for the Washington Post Washington Post, who wrote that Brown was "perfectly master of the situation and handles his office...with ease and dexterity."

As the president's right-hand man, Brown was the last person in the White House to see him before he left for the train station that morning. He was working quietly in his office when, just before 9:00 a.m., he heard the door open and looked up to see Garfield walking into the room. Over the years, he had come to know the president well, and he could tell that he was looking forward to this trip "with an almost pathetic longing." Clapping a hand on his secretary's shoulder, Garfield said, "Goodbye, my boy, you have had your holiday, now I am going to have mine. Keep a watchful eye on things."

After warmly shaking Brown's hand, Garfield stepped outside the White House and climbed into a waiting carriage. It was the State Department carriage, a small coupe with just one seat for the president and the secretary of state, whom Garfield had asked to ride with him to the station. There were no guards, not even an a.s.sistant. Just two old friends riding in a modest, one-horse carriage. Behind them, Garfield's army buddy Captain Almon Rockwell drove Harry and Jim in the president's carriage, which Garfield had borrowed from Rutherford Hayes because he could not afford his own. which Garfield had borrowed from Rutherford Hayes because he could not afford his own.

The small caravan was in no hurry to reach its destination. Garfield, although looking forward to seeing Lucretia and visiting his alma mater, wanted to discuss with Blaine his plans for the end of the summer. He had scheduled a tour of the South and planned to give an important, and very likely controversial, speech on reconstruction and race while in Atlanta, Georgia. As they talked, Blaine kept his horse clopping along at a leisurely pace, "in conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning."

Like Garfield, Guiteau woke early that morning, excited and restless. When he opened his eyes at 5:00 a.m., he saw not the small, shabby interior of Mrs. Grant's boardinghouse, where he had been staying for the past six weeks, but a much more elegant room. When he opened his eyes at 5:00 a.m., he saw not the small, shabby interior of Mrs. Grant's boardinghouse, where he had been staying for the past six weeks, but a much more elegant room. After reading about the president's trip in the newspaper two days earlier and deciding that this was the opportunity he had been looking for, Guiteau had moved to the Riggs House, the hotel where Garfield had stayed on the night before his inauguration. For months, Guiteau had spent entire afternoons in the Riggs House lobby, reading the newspapers, using the hotel stationery, and keeping an eye out for the many politicians and prominent men who met there. Now he finally had a room of his own at the prestigious hotel, and need not concern himself about the bill. After reading about the president's trip in the newspaper two days earlier and deciding that this was the opportunity he had been looking for, Guiteau had moved to the Riggs House, the hotel where Garfield had stayed on the night before his inauguration. For months, Guiteau had spent entire afternoons in the Riggs House lobby, reading the newspapers, using the hotel stationery, and keeping an eye out for the many politicians and prominent men who met there. Now he finally had a room of his own at the prestigious hotel, and need not concern himself about the bill.

As Guiteau dressed for the day in his new, well-appointed room, Mrs. Grant, the owner of his previous boardinghouse, was desperately trying to track him down. For weeks, Guiteau had met her requests for payment with excuses and promises. "I can't do anything for you to-day, but I certainly will in a day or two," he had written to her two days earlier. "Please do not mention this to any one, as it will do me harm, as I will settle in a day or two. You can depend on this." The next day, Mrs. Grant had found his room empty and his bag gone. She refused, however, to admit defeat. In fact, she had placed an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the Daily Post Daily Post that was to appear that day: "WANTED: Charles Guiteau, of Illinois, who gives the President and Secretary Blaine as reference, to call at 924 14th St., and pay his board bill." that was to appear that day: "WANTED: Charles Guiteau, of Illinois, who gives the President and Secretary Blaine as reference, to call at 924 14th St., and pay his board bill."

Unaware and unconcerned about Mrs. Grant's advertis.e.m.e.nt, and filled with a satisfying sense of his own importance that day, Guiteau allowed himself a leisurely morning. It was too early for breakfast, so he walked to Lafayette Park as he had done nearly every day for the past four months. He rested, read the paper, and "enjoyed the beautiful morning air." At eight, he returned to the Riggs House and had a large meal. " It was too early for breakfast, so he walked to Lafayette Park as he had done nearly every day for the past four months. He rested, read the paper, and "enjoyed the beautiful morning air." At eight, he returned to the Riggs House and had a large meal. "I ate well," he would later say, "and felt well in body and mind."

After breakfast, Guiteau returned to his room to retrieve a few items. Over the past few weeks, as he prepared to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president, he had written a series of letters that he took great satisfaction in knowing would be published to wide readership. One of those letters, however, he had addressed to just one man-General William Tec.u.mseh Sherman. Scrawled on the back of a telegraph sheet, it read: To General Sherman:I have just shot the President.I shot him several times, as I wished him to go as easily as possible.His death was a political necessity.I am a lawyer, theologian, and politician.I am a Stalwart of the Stalwarts.I was with Gen Grant, and the rest of our men in New York during the canvas.I am going to the jail.Please order out your troops, and take possession of the jail at once.Charles Guiteau Folding the letters into an envelope, Guiteau put them with his edited copy of The Truth The Truth. To the cover of his book, he attached a note to the New York Herald New York Herald. "You can print this entire book, if you wish to," it read. "I would suggest that it be printed in sections, i.e. i.e., one or two sections a day.... I intend to have it handsomely printed by some first-cla.s.s New York publisher, but the Herald can have the first chance at it." I intend to have it handsomely printed by some first-cla.s.s New York publisher, but the Herald can have the first chance at it."

There was one last letter, which Guiteau had written just that morning and now tucked safely into his shirt pocket. Addressed to the White House, it attempted to explain what he was about to do. "The President's tragic death was a sad necessity, but it will unite the Republican party and save the Republic. Life is a fleeting dream, and it matters little when one goes," he wrote. "I presume the President was a Christian and that he will be happier in Paradise than here." tragic death was a sad necessity, but it will unite the Republican party and save the Republic. Life is a fleeting dream, and it matters little when one goes," he wrote. "I presume the President was a Christian and that he will be happier in Paradise than here."

His affairs in order, Guiteau was finally ready to leave. He was wearing a dark suit with a "nice, clean shirt," and he looked, he was confident, "like a gentleman." Before stepping out the door, he picked up his revolver, carefully wrapped it in paper, and slid it into his hip pocket. Before stepping out the door, he picked up his revolver, carefully wrapped it in paper, and slid it into his hip pocket.

Although he had taken his time that morning, Guiteau arrived at the Baltimore and Potomac station at Sixth and B Streets half an hour before Garfield. He decided to use the time to complete a few last tasks. Aware that he would soon be the focus of great attention, and concerned that his shoes looked a little dusty, he had them brushed and blacked. Then he approached a line of hack drivers outside the station. Thinking it best to arrange for a ride to the jail ahead of time, in case there was any danger to him personally, he asked one driver what he would charge to take him to the Congressional Cemetery, which was near the prison. "Well, I will take you out there for $2," the driver answered. Guiteau, who did not have two dollars but did not plan to pay for the ride anyway, told the driver he would let him know in a few minutes if he "wanted his services."

Once inside the station, Guiteau turned his attention to the items he had carried with him from the Riggs House. Approaching a newsstand, he asked the young man behind the counter, James Denny, if he could leave some packages with him for a few minutes. " Approaching a newsstand, he asked the young man behind the counter, James Denny, if he could leave some packages with him for a few minutes. "Certainly," Denny replied, and, taking the packages from Guiteau, placed them on top of a pile of papers stacked against a wall. Satisfied that his letters and book were in good hands and would be found by the authorities when the time came, Guiteau walked to the bathroom to examine his revolver one last time. He unwrapped it from the paper he had used to protect the powder from his perspiration, tested the trigger, and looked it over carefully "to see that it was alright." Five minutes after he stepped back into the waiting room, Garfield and Blaine arrived.

When the State Department carriage rounded the corner onto B Street, Garfield was seated nearest the sidewalk and so had an unimpeded view of the station. Although eager to begin his trip, the president did not relish the sight of the three-story redbrick building with its imposing Gothic design, nor had he ever.

So strongly did Garfield object to the station that, while in Congress, he had argued that it should be torn down. Nine years earlier, the government had given the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad fourteen acres of the National Mall, and the company had quickly built the station and laid tracks across the broad greensward. To the Mall, which Pierre-Charles L'Enfant had designed as a place for quiet contemplation, the station brought soot, smoke, noise, and even danger. Trains frequently killed and maimed people as they walked or rode in carriages along the Mall. People "will wonder," one senator railed, "why an American Congress should permit so foul a blotch to besmirch the face of so grand a picture."

Garfield, who referred to the Baltimore and Potomac as a "nuisance which ought long since to have been abated," also had personal reasons for disliking the station. In his mind, it would always be inextricably linked with one of the most painful experiences of his life-the death of his youngest son, Neddie. Just five years earlier, Garfield and Crete had watched as their little boy's body was carried through the station so that he might be buried in Mentor, next to his sister Trot, whom they had lost thirteen years earlier. "I did not know, since that great sorrow," Garfield had written in his diary after burying Neddie, "that my heart could be so wrung again by a similar loss."

As the carriage carrying Garfield came to a stop in front of the station entrance, Patrick Kearney, an officer with the Metropolitan Police, quickly walked in front of it to see if he could be of a.s.sistance. The president and his secretary of state, however, remained seated while they finished their conversation, Garfield's hand resting on Blaine's shoulder. Finally, Garfield called out the window to Kearney, asking him how much time he had before his train departed. Kearney, who had been leaning against a lamppost while he waited for the president, walked over to Garfield and showed him his watch: ten minutes.

Before stepping out of the carriage, Garfield turned to say goodbye to Blaine, who would not be traveling with him. The secretary of state, however, insisted on escorting him to the train. " to Blaine, who would not be traveling with him. The secretary of state, however, insisted on escorting him to the train. "I did not think it was proper for a president to go entirely unattended," he would later explain. As the two men ascended the steps into the station, arm in arm, Garfield suddenly stopped and turned back to Kearney, who had lifted his hat and saluted. Responding with a warm smile and tip of his hat, the president disappeared inside the door. As the two men ascended the steps into the station, arm in arm, Garfield suddenly stopped and turned back to Kearney, who had lifted his hat and saluted. Responding with a warm smile and tip of his hat, the president disappeared inside the door.

As Garfield entered the station, Sarah White, the matron for the ladies' waiting room, looked up from her position next to the room's heater. She watched as the president and secretary of state strode by, Blaine slightly ahead of Garfield, Harry and Jim trailing behind them. Garfield walked with an easy, natural confidence-"absolutely free from any affectation whatever."

He must have made a striking contrast to Guiteau, whom White had also been watching that morning. Not only was Guiteau nearly half a foot shorter than the president and seventy-five pounds lighter, but he seemed as uncomfortable and nervous as Garfield was at ease. As he shuffled soundlessly between the gentlemen's and ladies' waiting rooms, his shoulders bent, his head tilted at an odd angle, and his dark slouch hat sitting low over his eyes, Guiteau had seemed suspicious to White. "He would look in one door and pa.s.s on to the next door and look in again," she remembered. "He walked in the room once, took off his hat, wiped his face, and went out again."

When Garfield walked in, Guiteau was standing right behind him. This, Guiteau realized, was his chance to kill the president, and this time he was not about to let it slip away. Without a moment's hesitation, he raised the revolver he had been carrying with him for nearly a month and pointed it at Garfield's back. So complete was his composure that he might have been standing at the edge of the Potomac aiming at a sapling, instead of in a crowded train station about to shoot the president of the United States.

The Venezuelan charge d'affaires, Simon Camacho, happened to be standing next to Guiteau at that moment, and he could clearly see the a.s.sa.s.sin's face as he stood looking at Garfield, arm outstretched and unwavering. "His teeth were clenched and his mouth closed firmly," Camacho would later recall. "His eye was steady, and his face presented the appearance of a brave man, who is determined upon a desperate deed, and meant to do it calmly and well." Camacho would later recall. "His eye was steady, and his face presented the appearance of a brave man, who is determined upon a desperate deed, and meant to do it calmly and well."

Garfield had walked only a few steps into the room, and was just three feet away when Guiteau pulled the trigger. The bullet sliced through the president's right arm, pa.s.sing through his jacket and piercing the side of a tool box that a terrified worker was carrying through the station. The sudden impact made Garfield throw up his arms in surprise and cry out, "My G.o.d! What is this?"

As Garfield turned to see who had shot him, Guiteau fired again. By now, however, his courage had abandoned him, as his thoughts seemed to have suddenly shifted from the president's fate to his own. "The expression on [his] face had now changed," Camacho said. "His calmness had disappeared.... He fired wildly this time and with a hurried movement."

Despite the wave of fear that had washed over Guiteau, the lead bullet hit its mark, ripping into the president's back. The force thrust Garfield forward, his long legs buckling underneath him and his hands reaching out to break his fall. As he sank heavily to the carpeted floor, vomiting violently and barely conscious, a bright red stain blossomed on the back of his gray summer suit. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the station erupted in screams. The force thrust Garfield forward, his long legs buckling underneath him and his hands reaching out to break his fall. As he sank heavily to the carpeted floor, vomiting violently and barely conscious, a bright red stain blossomed on the back of his gray summer suit. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the station erupted in screams.

PART THREE

FEAR

CHAPTER 12

"THANK G G.o.d I IT I IS A ALL O OVER"

If there be one thing upon this earth that mankind love and admire...it is a brave man.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

As cries of "Catch him!" echoed through the train station, Guiteau's face "blanched like that of a corpse," the Venezuelan charge d'affaires, Camacho, would remember. Literally trembling with fear, his eyes rolling "from side to side as if he was a hunted man," Guiteau sprang for the door that led to B Street and his waiting carriage. Before he could reach it, however, Camacho, who was closer to the exit and had suddenly realized what was happening, lunged forward, blocking the door and desperately waving his arms in the air for help. Guiteau spun around and darted for the Sixth Street exit just as Blaine, who had instinctively raced after him, shouted for the doors to be barred.