Destiny of the Republic Part 6

The first man to catch Guiteau was a ticket agent named Robert Parke. As the a.s.sa.s.sin raced past him, Parke grabbed him by the back of his neck and his left wrist, calling out, "This is the man." Officer Kearney, who had exchanged a smile and a tip of the hat with Garfield just minutes earlier, ran to Parke's side, seizing Guiteau powerfully and shaking him. Officer Kearney, who had exchanged a smile and a tip of the hat with Garfield just minutes earlier, ran to Parke's side, seizing Guiteau powerfully and shaking him.

At first Guiteau twisted and turned, trying to free himself, but as the crowd surged around him, pulsing with shock and fury, he realized that, on his own, he would not survive. Across the station, a group of enraged black men, joined by a growing chorus, began shouting "Lynch him!" and the lethal momentum of the mob became all but unstoppable. "I truly believe that if they hadn't been so many officers present," a porter would later say, "the man would have been strung up then and there." Guiteau, fear " later say, "the man would have been strung up then and there." Guiteau, fear "in his eyes, in his color, in his every movement," turned to Kearney and said, "I want to go to jail."

Guiteau gladly acquiesced as Kearney dragged him outside the station and onto the street, but he had something he wanted to say, and he repeated it over and over, in a desperate refrain. Taking the letter he had written to General Sherman out of his breast pocket and waving it frantically in the air, he said, "I have a letter that I want to see carried to General Sherman. I want Sherman to have this letter." As they hurried along, Kearney a.s.sured Guiteau that his letter would be delivered. By the time they reached police headquarters, Guiteau, surrounded by policemen and safely away from the raging mob, had recovered the calm, determined expression he had had before firing the first shot. "He had a rather fierce look out of his eyes," one of the officers would later recall, "but he did not appear to me to be excited at all."

The men who had arrested Guiteau, on the other hand, had lost all professional bearing in the face of a presidential a.s.sa.s.sination. So excited and fl.u.s.tered were they that not one of them had thought to take the gun. They did not discover their extraordinary oversight until they emptied Guiteau's pockets. Kearney found his papers first, then a couple of coins-which amounted to all the money he was carrying with him, and likely all he had-and then finally, reaching into his hip pocket, he pulled out the weapon Guiteau had used to shoot the president, still loaded with three thick cartridges.

Just ten minutes after he had arrived at police headquarters, as word of the shooting spread and the streets began to fill with angry men searching for the a.s.sa.s.sin, Guiteau was moved to the District Jail. To his mind, he was going to jail only for his own protection, not because he was an accused murderer who would face trial. "I did not expect to go through the form of being committed," he would later say. "I went to jail for my own personal protection. I had sense enough for that."

By the time he stepped into a police department carriage, Guiteau had little thought for the crime he had just committed, or the man he a.s.sumed he had killed. His mind was too preoccupied with the celebrity that awaited him. Sherman, he was confident, would soon receive his letter and send out the troops to free him, and Vice President Arthur, overwhelmed with grat.i.tude, would be eager to be of any a.s.sistance. Until they could reach him, however, he would need the help of someone less exalted to make his prison stay as comfortable as possible. Recalling what he knew about the District Jail from his trip there the week before, he turned to the detective seated next to him and attempted to strike a deal. " and send out the troops to free him, and Vice President Arthur, overwhelmed with grat.i.tude, would be eager to be of any a.s.sistance. Until they could reach him, however, he would need the help of someone less exalted to make his prison stay as comfortable as possible. Recalling what he knew about the District Jail from his trip there the week before, he turned to the detective seated next to him and attempted to strike a deal. "You stick to me and have me put in the third story, front, at the jail," he said. "Gen. Sherman is coming down to take charge. Arthur and all those men are my friends, and I'll have you made Chief of Police."

Although he was in police custody, on his way to prison, Guiteau could not have been more pleased had he been bound for Paris, the consulship to France finally his. He complained that, for weeks, he had been "haunted and haunted and oppressed and oppressed, and could get no relief." Now that he had finally carried out his divine mission, he could relax and enjoy what was to come. He believed he was about to shake off the poverty, misery, and obscurity of his former life, and step into the national spotlight. He felt happy for the first time in a long time. "Thank G.o.d it is all over," he thought.

For Harry Garfield, who stood in the train station waiting room, desperately trying to fend off the crush of people pressing in upon his father, the nightmare into which Guiteau had plunged his family was only beginning. "Keep back! That my father may have air!" he cried, as his younger brother knelt beside Garfield, sobbing. "Keep them back!" Garfield's eyes were open, but it was not clear if he was conscious. He "was very pale, and he did not say a word," Jacob Smith, a janitor who had been the first person to reach the president, would later recall. Smith tried to help Garfield to his feet, but quickly realized that he could not stand and lowered him back to the floor. Garfield looked "very hard" into his eyes, as if trying to make sense of what was happening.

Watching Smith struggle to help Garfield, Sarah White, the ladies' waiting room attendant, rushed over and placed the president's head in her lap. Although he was able to ask her for water, and drink what she gave him, he immediately began vomiting again, turning his head so that he would stain his own suit rather than her dress. him, he immediately began vomiting again, turning his head so that he would stain his own suit rather than her dress. As tears streamed down White's face, a station agent leaned over her to remove Garfield's collar and tie. As tears streamed down White's face, a station agent leaned over her to remove Garfield's collar and tie.

Although it seemed to everyone in the station that the president was surely dying, the injury he had sustained from Guiteau's gun was not fatal. The second bullet had entered his back four inches to the right of his spinal column. Continuing its trajectory, it had traveled ten inches and now rested behind his pancreas. It had broken two of Garfield's ribs and grazed an artery, but it had missed his spinal cord and, more important, his vital organs.

Just five minutes after the shooting, Dr. Smith Townsend, the District of Columbia's health officer, arrived at the Baltimore and Potomac. Although he was the first doctor to reach the station, within the hour he would be joined by a succession of nine more physicians, each of whom wanted to examine the president.

Townsend's first concern was simply keeping Garfield conscious. After asking White to place his head back on the floor so that it would not be elevated, he gave the president half an ounce of brandy and aromatic spirits of ammonia. When Garfield was alert enough to speak, Townsend asked him where he felt the most pain, and Garfield indicated his legs and feet. When Garfield was alert enough to speak, Townsend asked him where he felt the most pain, and Garfield indicated his legs and feet.

What Townsend did next was something that Joseph Lister, despite years spent traveling the world, proving the source of infection and pleading with physicians to sterilize their hands and instruments, had been unable to prevent. As the president lay on the train station floor, one of the most germ-infested environments imaginable, Townsend inserted an unsterilized finger into the wound in his back, causing a small hemorrhage and almost certainly introducing an infection that was far more lethal than Guiteau's bullet.

After he made his initial examination, Townsend, finally realizing that he needed to get his patient away from the crowd, asked for help moving Garfield. moving Garfield. A group of men who worked at the station disappeared into a nearby room and walked out a few minutes later carrying a mattress made of hay and horsehair. A group of men who worked at the station disappeared into a nearby room and walked out a few minutes later carrying a mattress made of hay and horsehair. As they lifted the president onto the mattress, a groan of pain escaped from his lips, but he did not speak. The conductor of the train Garfield was supposed to be on had run to the scene of the shooting and now cleared the way as the men carried the president out of the waiting room and up a set of winding stairs that led to a large, empty room over the station. As they lifted the president onto the mattress, a groan of pain escaped from his lips, but he did not speak. The conductor of the train Garfield was supposed to be on had run to the scene of the shooting and now cleared the way as the men carried the president out of the waiting room and up a set of winding stairs that led to a large, empty room over the station.

As Garfield lay on the crude mattress, vomiting repeatedly and falling in and out of consciousness, he worried about Lucretia, who expected to see him that day. She was still recovering from an illness that had nearly killed her, and he was terrified that when she learned of the shooting the shock would be too much for her to bear. There was nothing he could do to protect her from the news. The best he could hope for was to somehow tell her himself. Motioning for his old friend Almon Rockwell to come close, he said, "I think you had better telegraph to Crete." Rockwell listened intently to Garfield, determined to faithfully convey his words, and then left to send the most difficult telegram he had ever had to write.

On his way to the telegraph station, Rockwell pa.s.sed the members of Garfield's cabinet who had intended to travel with the president. They had been walking on the train station platform, waiting for Garfield to arrive, when Colonel John Jameson, an agent of the Postal Railway Service, came running up to them, shouting that the president had been shot. So unexpected and shocking was the news that at first they did not believe him. It was not until they heard the chaos and screaming in the station that they realized that Jameson was telling the truth, and quickly followed him to the somber room above the tracks.

As soon as the cabinet members appeared, Blaine pulled them aside and told them that he knew the a.s.sa.s.sin. "I recognized the man...before, I think, the police had even discovered his name," Blaine would later say. He had not seen Guiteau pull the trigger, but he had caught sight of him as he fled toward the exit, and with a shock of recognition had realized that he was the same man who had sat in the State Department waiting room day after day, insisting that he be given a consulship.

While the cabinet members discussed Guiteau, a second doctor entered the room-Charles Purvis, surgeon in chief of the Freedmen's Hospital. entered the room-Charles Purvis, surgeon in chief of the Freedmen's Hospital. Although he was only thirty-nine years old, Purvis had already made history several times over. He was one of the first black men in the country to receive his medical training at a university, had been one of only eight black surgeons in the Union Army during the Civil War, and was one of the first black men to serve on the faculty of an American medical school. Although he was only thirty-nine years old, Purvis had already made history several times over. He was one of the first black men in the country to receive his medical training at a university, had been one of only eight black surgeons in the Union Army during the Civil War, and was one of the first black men to serve on the faculty of an American medical school. Now, as he leaned over Garfield, recommending that blankets be wrapped around his body and hot water bottles placed on his feet and legs, he became the first black doctor to treat a president of the United States. Now, as he leaned over Garfield, recommending that blankets be wrapped around his body and hot water bottles placed on his feet and legs, he became the first black doctor to treat a president of the United States.

As the tension rose, and everyone around him spoke in hushed, panicked voices, Garfield remained "the calmest man in the room," Robert Todd Lincoln marveled. Lying on his left side, his coat and waistcoat removed so that the wound was exposed, Garfield turned to one of the doctors closest to him and asked what chance he had of surviving. "One chance in a hundred," the doctor gravely replied. "We will take that chance, doctor," Garfield said, "and make good use of it."

Secretary Lincoln watched the events unfolding around him with an all-too-familiar horror. His memory of standing at his father's deathbed sixteen years earlier was vivid in his mind, and he was shocked and sickened by the realization that he was now witnessing another presidential a.s.sa.s.sination. "My G.o.d," he murmured, "how many hours of sorrow I have pa.s.sed in this town."

Suddenly, Lincoln decided that he would not simply stand by and watch Garfield die. Remembering that his own carriage was waiting just outside the station, he rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and to the door. Calling for his driver, he instructed him to find Dr. D. Willard Bliss, one of the doctors who had tried without hope to save his father.

Lincoln chose Bliss in part because he knew he would be a familiar sight to Garfield. Bliss had lived near the president's childhood home in Ohio, and had known him as "an earnest, industrious boy...whose ambitions were evidently far above his apparent advantages." Years later, when he was a congressman, Garfield had supported and encouraged Bliss when the doctor was expelled from the powerful District of Columbia Medical Society after disagreeing with its policy to bar black doctors and showing an interest in the relatively new medical field of homeopathy. Years later, when he was a congressman, Garfield had supported and encouraged Bliss when the doctor was expelled from the powerful District of Columbia Medical Society after disagreeing with its policy to bar black doctors and showing an interest in the relatively new medical field of homeopathy. When the society repeatedly and openly attacked Bliss, accusing him of conferring with "quacks" and seriously damaging his reputation, Garfield had written to him, praising his actions. By their condemnation, the society had "decorated" Bliss, Garfield insisted. "I have no doubt it will do you good." When the society repeatedly and openly attacked Bliss, accusing him of conferring with "quacks" and seriously damaging his reputation, Garfield had written to him, praising his actions. By their condemnation, the society had "decorated" Bliss, Garfield insisted. "I have no doubt it will do you good."

In the end, Bliss could not hold up under the pressure. After six years he had buckled, apologizing to the society, returning to its fold, and turning his back on the men he had once championed. By doing so, he had regained his reputation and lucrative medical practice. By the time of Garfield's shooting, Bliss had been a practicing surgeon for thirty years. He had had a thriving practice in Michigan, had served as a regimental surgeon during the Civil War, and had run the Armory Square Hospital across the street from the Smithsonian Inst.i.tution. Over the years, he had won the respect and admiration of a wide segment of the population, including even Walt Whitman, who had been a steward at the Armory Square Hospital and had described him as a "very fine operating surgeon."

Bliss's record, however, was far from spotless. Although it seemed that his occupation had been determined at birth, when his parents named him Doctor Willard, giving him a medical t.i.tle for his first name, Bliss's desire for recognition and financial compensation was nearly as all-consuming as Guiteau's. Although it seemed that his occupation had been determined at birth, when his parents named him Doctor Willard, giving him a medical t.i.tle for his first name, Bliss's desire for recognition and financial compensation was nearly as all-consuming as Guiteau's. While at the Armory Square Hospital, he had been accused of accepting a $500 bribe and was held for several days in the Old Capitol Prison. Just ten years earlier, he had been heavily involved in a controversy surrounding a purported cure for cancer called cundurango, a plant native to the Andes Mountains. Believing that cundurango would be to cancer what quinine was to malaria, he had staked his professional reputation on it, selling it wherever he could and even posting hyperbolic advertis.e.m.e.nts: " While at the Armory Square Hospital, he had been accused of accepting a $500 bribe and was held for several days in the Old Capitol Prison. Just ten years earlier, he had been heavily involved in a controversy surrounding a purported cure for cancer called cundurango, a plant native to the Andes Mountains. Believing that cundurango would be to cancer what quinine was to malaria, he had staked his professional reputation on it, selling it wherever he could and even posting hyperbolic advertis.e.m.e.nts: "Cundurango!" one ad read. "The wonderful remedy for Cancer, Syphilis, Scrofula, Ulcers, Salt Reb.u.m, and All Other Chronic Blood Diseases."

More ominous for Garfield was the fact that Bliss had very little respect for Joseph Lister's theories on infection, and even less interest in following his complicated methods for antisepsis. Although he had once been open to working with not only black doctors but also homeopaths, physicians who believed in using very small doses of medicine, Bliss's approach to medicine had changed dramatically after his battle with the Medical Society. Now, like most doctors at that time, he was a strict adherent to allopathy, which often involved administering large doses of harsh medicines that, they believed, would produce an effect opposite to the disease. approach to medicine had changed dramatically after his battle with the Medical Society. Now, like most doctors at that time, he was a strict adherent to allopathy, which often involved administering large doses of harsh medicines that, they believed, would produce an effect opposite to the disease.

As soon as Bliss arrived at the station in Lincoln's carriage, he a.s.sumed immediate and complete control of the president's medical care. Striding into the room where Garfield lay, he briefly questioned Townsend and Purvis and then quickly began his own, much more invasive examination of the patient. Opening his bag, Bliss selected a long probe that had a white porcelain tip. Fourteen years before the invention of the X-ray, doctors used these probes to determine the location of bullets. If the tip came against bone, it would remain white, but a lead bullet would leave a dark mark.

With nothing to even ease the pain, Garfield lay silent as Bliss searched for the bullet inside him. Pressing the unsterilized probe downward and forward into the wound, Bliss did not stop until he had reached a cavity three inches deep in Garfield's back. At this point, he decided to remove the probe, but found that he could not. " downward and forward into the wound, Bliss did not stop until he had reached a cavity three inches deep in Garfield's back. At this point, he decided to remove the probe, but found that he could not. "In attempting to withdraw the probe, it became engaged between the fractured fragments and the end of the rib," he later wrote. He finally had to press down on Garfield's fractured rib so that it would lift and release the probe.

Although the probe was finally out, Garfield had no respite. Bliss immediately began to explore the wound again, this time with the little finger of his left hand. He inserted his finger so deeply into the wound that he could feel the broken rib and "what appeared to be lacerated tissue or comparatively firm coagula, probably the latter."

By this time, Purvis had seen enough. With a boldness that was then extraordinary in a black doctor addressing a white one, he asked Bliss to end his examination. Ignoring Purvis, Bliss removed his finger from the wound, turned once again to his bag, and calmly selected another probe, this one made of flexible silver. Bending the probe into a curve, he pa.s.sed it into Garfield's back "downward and forward, and downward and backward in several directions" while Purvis looked on, unable to stop him.

CHAPTER 13

"IT'S T TRUE"

It is one of the precious mysteries of sorrow that it finds solace in unselfish thought.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

Lucretia was packing her bags in her hotel room in Elberon, New Jersey, preparing to meet James for their trip to New England, when General David Swaim knocked on her door. At one point during the Civil War, when Garfield had been too sick to walk, Swaim had literally carried him home. Now, he held only a telegram in his hands, but his words made Lucretia's heart miss a beat. There has been an accident, he said. Perhaps she should return to Washington.

Lucretia took the slip of paper and slowly read the message that her husband had dictated to Rockwell in the train station: THE P PRESIDENT WISHES ME TO SAY TO YOU FROM HIM THAT HE HAS BEEN SERIOUSLY HURT-HOW SERIOUSLY HE CANNOT YET SAY. H HE IS HIMSELF AND HOPES YOU WILL COME TO HIM SOON. H HE SENDS HIS LOVE TO YOU.

Looking up at Swaim, she said, "Tell me the truth."

As Swaim attempted to tell Lucretia the little he knew, Ulysses S. Grant appeared at the door. He had been staying in his son's cabin just across the street for the past two weeks, but, still nursing a grudge, had done nothing before now to acknowledge the president and first lady beyond a stiff bow and tip of his hat. " still nursing a grudge, had done nothing before now to acknowledge the president and first lady beyond a stiff bow and tip of his hat. "I do not think he can afford to show feeling in this way," Garfield had written in his diary just the week before. "I am quite certain he injures himself more than he does me." feeling in this way," Garfield had written in his diary just the week before. "I am quite certain he injures himself more than he does me."

As soon as Grant learned of the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, however, the hard feelings and wounded pride of the past year were forgotten. Taking Lucretia's hand in his, the former president and retired general was at first "so overcome with emotion," one member of Grant's party would recall, "he could scarcely speak." Finally, he was able to tell Lucretia that he had brought with him something that he hoped would give her a measure of comfort. He had just received a telegram from a friend in Washington who was certain that the president's wounds were not mortal. From what he knew of the injury, Grant agreed. He had known many soldiers to survive similar wounds. Finally, he was able to tell Lucretia that he had brought with him something that he hoped would give her a measure of comfort. He had just received a telegram from a friend in Washington who was certain that the president's wounds were not mortal. From what he knew of the injury, Grant agreed. He had known many soldiers to survive similar wounds.

Although he did not stay long, Grant's words and, perhaps even more, his kindness were an emotional life raft for Lucretia, something to cling to until she could see James. Hurriedly finishing her packing, she left the hotel with Mollie to catch a special train, made up of just an engine and one Pullman car, that had been arranged to take them to Washington as quickly as possible. Hurriedly finishing her packing, she left the hotel with Mollie to catch a special train, made up of just an engine and one Pullman car, that had been arranged to take them to Washington as quickly as possible. By the time they reached the station, a crowd had already gathered, many of the women crying as the men stood in silence, hats in hands. By the time they reached the station, a crowd had already gathered, many of the women crying as the men stood in silence, hats in hands.

As Lucretia's train sped south toward Washington, another train, traveling west, carried her youngest sons to Mentor, Ohio, where they were to spend the summer. By telegraph and telephone, news of their father's shooting had raced ahead of them, stirring fear and confusion throughout the country. "All along the route...crowds collected at the stations we pa.s.sed, and begged for news," one conductor would later say. "The country seemed to become more feverish as the day advanced."

Thanks to an extraordinary, spontaneous act of sympathy that united pa.s.sengers and rail workers all along their journey, however, ten-year-old Irvin and eight-year-old Abe remained completely unaware of what had happened to their father. Even as citizens throughout the country struggled with their own reactions to the news of Guiteau's crime, the president's children became a focus of national concern. No one could bear the thought of them alone on the train, learning that their father had been shot. children became a focus of national concern. No one could bear the thought of them alone on the train, learning that their father had been shot.

While the boys gazed out the railcar window, watching trees and towns flash by, stationmasters and railroad officials pa.s.sed ahead instructions not to discuss the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt. Pa.s.sengers and even newsboys showed astonishing restraint. "Conductors pa.s.sed quietly through the train that carried the boys westward, requesting silence as they whispered the news," Garfield's granddaughter would write years later. "The children reached Mentor unaware of the dark cloud that was enveloping their family."

When the boys finally arrived it was noon, more than an hour after news of the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt had reached the little town. They were quickly bundled into a carriage and brought to their family farm. While neighbors and friends slipped in and out of the farmhouse, hoping to be told that the rumors were untrue, a reporter spoke to Lucretia's father. "We have not said a word to the [boys]," Zeb Rudolph admitted. "We hoped that it may not be true, and now that it is true we almost fear to tell them." Struggling to keep his composure in the presence of a stranger, he watched as his grandsons played "in happy ignorance" on the wide, sun-soaked lawn.

In the second-story room above the Baltimore and Potomac station, Garfield asked only one thing of the more than a dozen men who hovered over him-that they take him home. After enduring Bliss's excruciating examinations and listening to ten different doctors discuss his fate, Garfield finally convinced the sh.e.l.l-shocked members of his cabinet that, although the White House, with its rotting wood and leaking pipes, was no place for a sick man, anything was better than this room. As gently as they could, eight men lifted the president and carried him back down the steep stairs while he lay on the train car mattress, now stained with vomit and blood.

When they reached the waiting room, the men could hardly believe their eyes. In the brief time they had spent upstairs, trying to understand the extent of the president's injuries, the once orderly station below them had transformed into a madhouse. " their eyes. In the brief time they had spent upstairs, trying to understand the extent of the president's injuries, the once orderly station below them had transformed into a madhouse. "The crowd about the depot," one man would recall, "had become a swaying mult.i.tude, with people running from every direction in frantic haste." Within ten minutes of the shooting, a mob had gathered on Sixth and B Streets. An attempt to storm the building, in the hope of finding the a.s.sa.s.sin and lynching him, had been prevented only by a desperate telephone call to the police. Within ten minutes of the shooting, a mob had gathered on Sixth and B Streets. An attempt to storm the building, in the hope of finding the a.s.sa.s.sin and lynching him, had been prevented only by a desperate telephone call to the police.

As soon as Garfield appeared, however, the character of the crowd immediately changed. Men and women who had been screaming with fear and fury just moments before suddenly recovered their reason, quietly urging each other to make room for the president as he was carried out of the station and carefully put into a makeshift ambulance. "I think I can see now," one of Garfield's doctors would write years later, "the sea of human faces that completely filled the s.p.a.ce in and around the depot, as we carried him down the stairs, and through the depot, with the mingled expressions of pity and consternation that sat upon each of them." Once settled on the mattress and a pile of hastily arranged cushions, Garfield, his right arm lifted over his head and his face "ashy white," looked silently out the window.

Hoping to spare the president any additional pain, the ambulance driver guided his horse so slowly over the broken brick streets that hundreds of people were able to keep up with his wagon, somberly walking just behind it. Whenever they came to a pothole, policemen would carefully lift the ambulance, trying their best not to jar it. Garfield's "sufferings must have been intense," one reporter wrote, "but he gave no sign of it, and was as gentle and submissive as a child."

Joseph Stanley Brown was working alone in his office, just as Garfield had left him, when one of the White House doormen suddenly appeared before his desk. There was something about the way the man walked in, "haltingly and timidly," that made Brown uneasy. "Mr. Secretary," he said, "there is a rumor that the President has been shot."

Years later, Brown would struggle to explain how he felt when he heard those words. It was as if he were "suddenly congealed," he said, as if his hectic, bustling world had lurched to a stop. Desperately trying to dismiss the idea, and to sound more confident than he felt, he snapped at the doorman. "Nonsense!" he said. "The story cannot possibly be true."

The man quickly shuffled away, but Brown could not shake the sickening feeling that had settled over him, nor would he have a chance to. Just moments after he had managed to return his attention to his work, his office door suddenly burst open, and a messenger staggered into the room. "Oh, Mr. Secretary," he cried, "it's true, they are bringing the President to the White House now."

Although Brown would later admit that he was more shocked than he had ever been, or would ever again be, he instinctively sprang into action, reacting with the same intelligence and pragmatism that had convinced Garfield to trust him with such a critical job. "Even in moments of greatest misery," he would later write, "homely tasks have to be performed, and perhaps they tide us over the worst." If the president was injured, a bed must be made ready at once. There was a suitable room in the southeast corner of the house, and Brown ordered a steward to prepare it "with all speed."

Then Brown personally took charge of the fortification of the White House and the protection of the president. With complete confidence and authority, he ordered the gates closed and sent a telegram to the chief of police, requesting a "temporary but adequate detail of officers." Next he contacted the War Department and arranged for a military contingent for Garfield, a man who had never had so much as a single bodyguard.

Although Brown's first priority was to secure the White House, he knew that he could not seal it off completely. The American people deserved "full and accurate information" about their president, and he was determined that they would get it. With astonishing speed and efficiency, he had pa.s.ses issued to journalists and government officials so that they might have access to his office at any time, day or night.

As he raced through the halls of the White House, giving orders, inspecting rooms, and turning an entire wing into a "miniature hospital," Brown paused for a moment to glance out the window. Below him, he saw a modest wagon trundling up Pennsylvania Avenue. It looked suitable for neither a president nor a wounded man, but as it slowed to enter the gates, he suddenly noticed the crowd gathered around it. Garfield, he knew, was inside. neither a president nor a wounded man, but as it slowed to enter the gates, he suddenly noticed the crowd gathered around it. Garfield, he knew, was inside.

With his staff watching from the windows, Brown raced down the stairs and out the door to where the wagon had rolled to a stop. As he stood there, still trying to understand what was happening, a group of men reached into the wagon and carefully carried the president out. When he saw his young secretary, Garfield waved weakly and tried to smile. Looking at the president, drained of color, his handsome gray suit torn and soaked with blood, Brown could not believe this was the same man who, just an hour before, had left the White House "abounding in health and the joy of living."

A dozen men lifted above their heads the mattress on which the president lay, carrying him into the White House, through the Blue Room, up the broad, central staircase, and to the room that Brown had had prepared for him. As his son Jim, no longer able to contain his fear and grief, began to cry, Garfield grasped his hand tightly. "The upper story is alright," he promised. "It is only the hull that was damaged."

Just eighteen miles outside of Washington, Lucretia, terrified that she was already too late, suddenly heard a deafening, high-pitched squeal and saw sparks flying outside her window. The twelve-foot-long parallel bar connecting the wheels of the special train that had been arranged for her, thundering along at 250 revolutions per minute, had suddenly snapped. Unable to stop, the engine dragged the broken rod for two miles, ripping up railroad ties and gouging the side of the train. The railroad men who would later arrive on the scene p.r.o.nounced it a miracle that the engine had not jumped the tracks. Had that happened, "the Pullman car would have been splintered into kindling-wood," the New York Times New York Times reported, "and all on board would have been killed." reported, "and all on board would have been killed."

More frustrated than frightened, Lucretia was forced to wait until a second engine could arrive to take her the rest of the way into Washington. By the time she finally reached the White House, it was nearly 7:00 p.m. Garfield had waited for her for hours without complaint, but he knew the moment she arrived. Hearing the crunch of her carriage wheels over the gravel driveway, he broke into a broad smile and, turning to his doctors, said, " 7:00 p.m. Garfield had waited for her for hours without complaint, but he knew the moment she arrived. Hearing the crunch of her carriage wheels over the gravel driveway, he broke into a broad smile and, turning to his doctors, said, "That's my wife!"

Lucretia's face was streaked with tears when she stepped out of the carriage, but she quickly wiped them away, determined to show only strength and confidence to James. "Mrs. Garfield came, frail, fatigued, desperate," Harriet Blaine wrote to her daughter the next day. "But firm and quiet and full of purpose to save." Until that moment, Secretary Blaine, although very pale and "evidently...making a strong effort to keep up his strength," had managed to stave off grief, allowing himself to think only of what could be done to save his friend. When he saw Lucretia and Mollie, however, he "broke completely," a reporter who had been waiting outside the White House gates wrote, and "wept for several minutes."

Lucretia went straight to Garfield's room, escorted up the stairs by her son Jim, his arm wrapped protectively around her as he whispered in her ear, trying to rea.s.sure her as his father had rea.s.sured him. Although she was surrounded by people desperate to protect her, to soften the blow, few of them believed her husband would live. Colonel Abel Corbin, President Grant's brother-in-law, had seen Garfield lying on the train station floor and told a reporter that he had watched "too many men die on the battlefield not to know death's mark." "In my opinion," Corbin said, Garfield was "virtually a dead man from the moment he was shot." Even the man who had a.s.sumed control of the president's medical care admitted that he held out little if any hope. Garfield "will not probably live three hours," Bliss said, "and may die in half an hour."

Lucretia, as she had done throughout her life, insisted on the truth, no matter how painful, but she was not about to abandon hope. Resolutely opening the door to the room where her husband lay, she left her children and friends behind and stepped inside with dry eyes and a warm smile. She would admit fear, but not despair. When Garfield, the memory of his own fatherless childhood weighing heavily on his mind, tried to talk to her about plans for their children if he were to die, she stopped him.

"I am here to nurse you back to life," she said firmly. "Please do not speak again of death."

CHAPTER 14

ALL E EVIL C CONSEQUENCES

Great ideas travel slowly, and for a time noiselessly, as the G.o.ds whose feet were shod with wool.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

While most of the country heard newsboys crying "Extra!" in the streets or overheard the frantic whispers of friends, news of the president's shooting reached the Volta Laboratory by telephone call. Alexander Graham Bell's a.s.sistant, Charles Sumner Tainter, was in the laboratory in Washington, working on a row of wax impressions for the phonograph, when his telephone suddenly sprang to life, its sharp ring shattering the silence and wrenching him away from his work. Although by now the invention had been installed in thousands of homes, for most Americans, it was not yet part of the everyday world. Even Bell did not often hear it ring.

If Tainter was surprised to receive a telephone call, he was astonished by the news it brought. "President Garfield," the caller said, had "just been shot while in the Baltimore and Potomac." When they learned what had happened, the members of Bell's family were struck by the cruelty and senselessness of the act, and reminded of the losses they had suffered in their own lives. As his mother would write in the following days, there was a sense of shock and grief, as heavy as if the president "belonged to us."

The Volta Laboratory was on Connecticut Avenue, a main thoroughfare in the heart of Washington, and Tainter and Bell's cousin Dr. Chicester Bell watched as the city seemed to descend into madness. People flooded the streets, dodging carriage wheels and horses' hooves as they raced toward the train station in disbelief, or away from it in terror. " "Everybody ran hither and thither without method," one contemporary writer would remember of that day. "Men forgot hat and coat, and ran into the streets and wandered about, apparently anxious only to be near somebody else, but shocked and bewildered." Determined to find out for himself what had happened, Tainter began to make his way toward the Baltimore and Potomac. So crowded and chaotic were the streets, however, that by the time he reached the train station, Garfield was already gone. Determined to find out for himself what had happened, Tainter began to make his way toward the Baltimore and Potomac. So crowded and chaotic were the streets, however, that by the time he reached the train station, Garfield was already gone.

In Boston, Bell had been in frequent contact with Tainter, as they worked long distance. His wife, pregnant with their third child, and his daughters needed him, but his thoughts had never been far from his work. As soon as he heard the news of the president's shooting, however, Bell's mind immediately shifted away from Edison's phonograph, and even his own invention, the photophone, to the president. Although he was not a doctor, Bell knew that, in the case of a gunshot wound, "no one could venture to predict the end so long as the position of the bullet remained unknown." It sickened him to think of Garfield's doctors blindly "search[ing] with knife and probe" for Guiteau's bullet. "Science," he reasoned, "should be able to discover some less barbarous method."

Science would soon exceed even Bell's expectations. Had Garfield been shot just fifteen years later, the bullet in his back would have been quickly found by X-ray images, and the wound treated with antiseptic surgery. He might have been back on his feet within weeks. Had he been able to receive modern medical care, he likely would have spent no more than a few nights in the hospital.

Even had Garfield simply been left alone, he almost certainly would have survived. Lodged as it was in the fatty tissue below and behind his pancreas, the bullet itself was no continuing danger to the president. "Nature did all she could to restore him to health," a surgeon would write just a few years later. "She caused a capsule of thick, strong, fibrous tissue to be formed around the bullet, completely walling it off from the rest of the body, and rendering it entirely harmless."

Garfield's doctors did not know where the bullet was, but they did know that it was not necessarily fatal. Just sixteen years after the end of the Civil War, hundreds of men, Union veterans and Confederate, were walking around with lead b.a.l.l.s inside them. Many of the soldiers, moreover, had sustained wounds that seemed almost impossible to survive. For the better part of his life, the man who delivered Guiteau to the District Jail, Detective McElfresh, had had a bullet in his brain, a wound also sustained during the Civil War. He appeared to be, one reporter mentioned offhandedly, "none the worse for it."

The critical difference between these anonymous men and Garfield was that they had received little if any medical care. If Garfield "had been a 'tough,' and had received his wound in a Bowery dive," a contemporary medical critic wrote, "he would have been brought to Bellevue Hospital...without any fuss or feathers, and would have gotten well." Instead, Garfield was the object of intense medical interest from a menagerie of physicians, each with his own theories and ambitions, and each acutely aware that he was treating the president of the United States. "had been a 'tough,' and had received his wound in a Bowery dive," a contemporary medical critic wrote, "he would have been brought to Bellevue Hospital...without any fuss or feathers, and would have gotten well." Instead, Garfield was the object of intense medical interest from a menagerie of physicians, each with his own theories and ambitions, and each acutely aware that he was treating the president of the United States.

For one doctor in particular, this national crisis was a rare and heady intersection of medicine and political power-an opportunity for recognition he would never see again. Although ten different doctors had examined Garfield at the train station, as soon as the medical entourage reached the White House, Dr. Doctor Willard Bliss made it perfectly clear that he was in charge. Striding into the room where Garfield was to stay, Bliss immediately began issuing orders. In the chaos and confusion that marked the first hours after the president was shot, Bliss's complete confidence in his position convinced even his most determined compet.i.tors that he had been given full authority over Garfield's case.

Taking on the role of chief physician, Bliss's first orders were to isolate the president. In this he had the help of armed military sentinels. The policemen whom Joseph Stanley Brown had requested to secure the White House had been forced to fan out into the city, where, according to one journalist, "the crowds were rapidly increasing in angry excitement." In their place stood a company of soldiers, refusing entry to even Garfield's closest friends and advisers and discouraging the most determined visitors. "The glance of their bayonets flashing in the sunlight as they walked with measured tread the several paths to which they were a.s.signed," one reporter wrote, "recalled the last hours of President Lincoln, when the same astonishment and horror were reflected on the faces of the crowds about the Executive Mansion." with measured tread the several paths to which they were a.s.signed," one reporter wrote, "recalled the last hours of President Lincoln, when the same astonishment and horror were reflected on the faces of the crowds about the Executive Mansion."

Inside the White House, Garfield was confined not to just one wing, or even one room, but to a small s.p.a.ce within that room. At Bliss's direction, his bed was pushed to the center of the room and encircled by screens. Even if a visitor were able to make it past the locked gates and armed guards, through the house, up the stairs, and into Garfield's room, he would still be separated from the president.

To anyone standing beyond the White House gates, it seemed that the president had simply disappeared. So completely removed was he from sight, and so impossible was it to get any information about him, that rumors quickly began to circulate that he had already died. The rumors were so convincing, in fact, that the Washington Post Washington Post published an extra edition, claiming that " published an extra edition, claiming that "President Garfield was shot and killed this morning." New Yorkers sorrowfully lowered their flags, only to raise them again a few hours later when they learned that the president was still living.

Having strictly limited Garfield's visitors to just a handful of family members and friends, Bliss turned his attention to what he considered to be the greatest threat to his newly won position-the other doctors. At the top of his list of potential compet.i.tors was Dr. Jedediah Hyde Baxter, the chief medical purveyor of the army and Garfield's personal physician for the past five years. When Garfield was shot, Baxter had been in Pennsylvania visiting a friend, but he had taken the first express train into Washington as soon as he heard the news. Bliss had been expecting him. At the top of his list of potential compet.i.tors was Dr. Jedediah Hyde Baxter, the chief medical purveyor of the army and Garfield's personal physician for the past five years. When Garfield was shot, Baxter had been in Pennsylvania visiting a friend, but he had taken the first express train into Washington as soon as he heard the news. Bliss had been expecting him.

When Baxter arrived at the White House at 9:00 the next morning, he raced up the stairs, expecting to be immediately ushered in to see the president. Instead, he was stopped cold by the sight of Bliss, lying on a sofa in a room adjacent to Garfield's. Bliss was in the midst of dictating a letter that he intended to have copied and distributed to the other doctors. When Baxter stepped into the room, Bliss greeted him pleasantly and invited him to take a seat, gesturing to the foot of the sofa on which he was lying.

Exhausted from his frantic trip and astonished by the scene before him, Baxter refused to sit down, demanding to see Garfield. "Why, doctor," Bliss said cordially, "it would not be proper for me to take you to the bedside of the President at this time." Beginning to understand what was happening, Baxter made it clear that he would not be turned away. "He is my patient," he said, "and I want to see him." "Your patient," Bliss replied. "You astonish me." "Yes, my patient," Baxter growled. "I have been his family physician for five years, and I wish to see him." Tossing aside any pretense of professional concern, Bliss said coldly, "You may have been his physician for ten ten years, for aught I know, but you are not his physician this morning." years, for aught I know, but you are not his physician this morning."