Destiny of the Republic Part 8

Unfortunately for Garfield, the White House was not much better. The structure had been built into sloping ground, and water constantly trickled in, keeping three layers of floors, two of which were made of unmortared brick, perpetually damp. The servants' living quarters were dark, cold, and dank. The kitchen, which was underneath the central hallway, was almost beyond repair, with whitewash peeling from the ceilings and sifting down into the cooking pots. The structure had been built into sloping ground, and water constantly trickled in, keeping three layers of floors, two of which were made of unmortared brick, perpetually damp. The servants' living quarters were dark, cold, and dank. The kitchen, which was underneath the central hallway, was almost beyond repair, with whitewash peeling from the ceilings and sifting down into the cooking pots.

Over the years, the moist rooms and rotting woodwork had proved irresistible to the rats that roamed the city and woods. By the time Garfield and his family had moved in, the entire house was, in the words of one reporter, "packed with vermin from cellar to garret." At night, when the office seekers had finally abandoned their hopes for the day and the staff had retired to their rooms, the family could hear rats scampering under the floorboards and rustling in the pantries.

Worse than the whitewash in the soup or even the rats in the flour bins, however, was the house's antiquated plumbing system. An inspection found that it did not even meet the most basic "sanitary requirements of a safe dwelling." Much of the plumbing, one inspector noted, was "defective-not a little of it radically so." The plumbing system had been built nearly half a century earlier and could not hope to hold up under The plumbing system had been built nearly half a century earlier and could not hope to hold up under the daily demands of waste from seven bathrooms in the primary living quarters, as well as the servants' chambers, the kitchen, and the pantries. Many of the pipes had long since disintegrated, leaving the soil under the bas.e.m.e.nt saturated with "foul matters." the daily demands of waste from seven bathrooms in the primary living quarters, as well as the servants' chambers, the kitchen, and the pantries. Many of the pipes had long since disintegrated, leaving the soil under the bas.e.m.e.nt saturated with "foul matters."

The decrepit condition of the White House was no secret to the outside world. One New York newspaper referred to it derisively as a "pest house" and argued that it should be torn down altogether. "The old White House is unfit for longer use as a Presidential residence," the Was.h.i.+ngton Post Was.h.i.+ngton Post declared. "Indeed, it has not, for many years, been suitable for such occupancy." declared. "Indeed, it has not, for many years, been suitable for such occupancy."

Even if the mansion itself had been in good repair, its location was among the worst in Was.h.i.+ngton. The south lawn ended at the edge of the Potomac's infamous tidal marsh. Although no one then understood that malaria was carried by mosquitoes, they had made the link between the "bad air" for which the disease was named and the marsh. When the "notoriously unhealthy" house had been blamed for Lucretia's illness, former president Hayes had rushed to its defense, insisting that it was a perfectly safe place to live. Even Hayes, however, had moved to the Soldiers' Home in the higher, cooler northwest section of the city every summer, from early July until after the first frost in October, as had Presidents Lincoln and Buchanan before him.

There was now deep concern that the president was being "greatly influenced by the miasma generated by the marshes." Four servants in the White House had already fallen ill with malaria, and Garfield's doctors felt certain that if he were to contract the disease, he would not survive it. Four servants in the White House had already fallen ill with malaria, and Garfield's doctors felt certain that if he were to contract the disease, he would not survive it. In a desperate effort to ward off malaria, they gave him five to ten grains of quinine every day. Unfortunately, the dangers of the drug are many. Not only can quinine be toxic if taken in large doses, but it can also bring on severe intestinal cramping, thus causing further trauma to Garfield's already ravaged digestive system. In a desperate effort to ward off malaria, they gave him five to ten grains of quinine every day. Unfortunately, the dangers of the drug are many. Not only can quinine be toxic if taken in large doses, but it can also bring on severe intestinal cramping, thus causing further trauma to Garfield's already ravaged digestive system.

Even away from the marsh, the city itself seemed noxious and diseased. Raw sewage floated down the Potomac, coating the thick summer air with a hazy stench, and dust and dirt settled over everything, from buildings to people. "You can't imagine anything so vile as Was.h.i.+ngton," Harriet Blaine wrote in disgust. "It seems like a weed by the wayside, covered with dust, too ugly for notice." The temperature hovered at 90 degrees. " covered with dust, too ugly for notice." The temperature hovered at 90 degrees. "Scarcely a breath of air was stirring," one reporter moaned, "and the air was heavy and sultry." The little breeze there was, moreover, came from the north, never reaching Garfield's room on the White House's southern side.

The oppressive heat, and the misery they knew it must be causing the president, prompted many Americans to write to the first lady, suggesting ways in which she might help her husband. "Sitting to day on my piazza, suffering from the great heat, my mind turned to Mr. Garfield," one man wrote from Georgia, "and it occurred to me that the air of his sick room might be cooled to any degree you wish by having sufficient ice in [the] room over his room, and let cold air down by pipes." Others suggested hanging sheets that had been dipped in ice water in Garfield's room, piling ice on the floor, and even placing large pieces of marble on the furniture. Others suggested hanging sheets that had been dipped in ice water in Garfield's room, piling ice on the floor, and even placing large pieces of marble on the furniture.

Finally, a corps of engineers from the navy and a small contingent of scientists, which included Garfield's old friend, the famed explorer and geologist John Wesley Powell, stepped in and designed what would become the country's first air conditioner. To cool Garfield's room, which was twenty feet long, twenty-five feet wide, and eighteen feet high, the men determined that they would need at least three tons of ice. In the president's office, they set up an elaborate system comprised of a thirty-six-inch electric fan that forced air through cheesecloth screens that had been soaked in ice water and placed in a six-foot-long iron box. The cooled air was then conducted into the president's room through a series of tin pipes. In the president's office, they set up an elaborate system comprised of a thirty-six-inch electric fan that forced air through cheesecloth screens that had been soaked in ice water and placed in a six-foot-long iron box. The cooled air was then conducted into the president's room through a series of tin pipes.

Although the system worked, cooling the air to a miraculous 55 degrees as it entered the pipes, the first trials brought Garfield more misery than relief. The damp cheesecloth made the air not just cool but heavily humid. Worse, although the air conditioner was in the president's office, its perpetual grinding and whirring filled his bedroom with an ear-splitting racket. So deafening was the sound that Garfield, summoning the little strength he had, finally called out for someone to turn the contraption off.

Unbowed, the engineers set to work to fix the problems. First, they placed a 134-gallon icebox between the iron box and the pipes, which, one scientist happily reported, produced air that was " placed a 134-gallon icebox between the iron box and the pipes, which, one scientist happily reported, produced air that was "cool, dry, and ample in supply." Then, realizing that the tin pipes amplified the noise, they quickly replaced them with ones made of canvas-covered wire, which absorbed the sounds, leaving Garfield, at long last, in relatively cool, quiet peace.

No one appreciated all that was being done to ease his suffering and save his life more than Garfield himself. Despite the fact that his health, his work, and quite possibly his life had been suddenly and senselessly taken from him, he remained unfailingly cheerful and kind, day after day. His doctors marveled at him, calling him a "wonderfully patient sufferer." Bliss would later recall that, throughout Garfield's illness, he "never approached him without meeting an extended hand, and an expression of thankful recognition of the efforts being made for his comfort and recovery." Each time, after the doctors had dressed his wounds, a long and painful daily process, Garfield would always say, in a hearty voice, "Thank you, gentlemen."

While Garfield's body had begun to fail him, his courtesy never did, nor his sense of humor. He had always been "witty, and quick at repartee," a former college cla.s.smate recalled, "but his jokes...were always harmless, and he would never willingly hurt another's feelings." Garfield now used humor to put those around him at ease. He gave his attendants affectionate nicknames, teasingly referring to one particularly fussy nurse as "the beneficent bore." "The vein of his conversation was...calculated to cheer up his friends and attendants," a reporter wrote, recalling how, when a messenger sent to buy a bottle of brandy returned with two, Garfield joked that he would now have to receive a "double allowance."

Garfield was painfully aware of the widespread fear and suffering on his behalf, and he wanted desperately to lighten the burden, even on those who had made themselves his enemies. Although they had done their best to destroy his presidency, Garfield made it clear that he did not for a moment believe the rumors linking Chester Arthur and Roscoe Conkling to Guiteau. Too weak to read the newspaper himself, he often listened as Lucretia read to him. One day, she stumbled upon a paragraph that directly blamed the vice president and former senator for the shooting. Hearing this, Garfield vehemently shook his head. " as Lucretia read to him. One day, she stumbled upon a paragraph that directly blamed the vice president and former senator for the shooting. Hearing this, Garfield vehemently shook his head. "I do not believe that," he said.

Although Garfield rarely mentioned the man who had tried to a.s.sa.s.sinate him, he could not help but wonder why anyone would do something so strange and inexplicably cruel. Finally, turning to Blaine, he asked, "What motive do you think that man could have had?" His old friend replied quietly, "I do not know Mr. President. He says he had no motive. He must be insane."

CHAPTER 17

ONE N NATION

There is no horizontal Stratification of society in this country like the rocks in the earth, that hold one cla.s.s down below forevermore, and let another come to the surface to stay there forever. Our Stratification is like the ocean, where every individual drop is free to move, and where from the sternest depths of the mighty deep any drop may come up to glitter on the highest wave that rolls.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

For the first time in their memory, certainly since the earliest beginnings of the Civil War, Americans facing the shared tragedy of Garfield's ordeal felt a deep and surprising connection to one another. Divided by vast stretches of dangerous wilderness and stark differences in race, religion, and culture, there had been little beyond severely strained notions of common citizens.h.i.+p to unite them. The a.s.sa.s.sination of Abraham Lincoln sixteen years earlier had only deepened that divide. But the attempt on Garfield's life aroused feelings of patriotism that many Americans had long since forgotten, or never knew they had.

The waves of emotion that swept over the country, moreover, were fed not only by the fact that America's president had been attacked in the train station that morning, but that that president had been Garfield. To his countrymen, a staggeringly diverse array of people, Garfield was at the same time familiar and extraordinary, a man who represented both what they were and what they hoped to be. Although he had been elevated to the highest seat of power, he was still, and would always be, one of their own.

A nation of immigrants, the United States found in Garfield a president who knew well the brutal indignities of poverty, and the struggle to overcome them. Between 1850 and 1930, the country's foreign-born population would rise from more than two million to more than fourteen million. This flood of people, known as the "new immigrants," came from a broader range of countries and with a greater number of languages than ever before. In Garfield's humble origins, remarkable rise, and soaring erudition, they found justification for their sacrifices, and hope for their children.

In the West, those Americans who had endured the perils and hards.h.i.+p of the frontier to find a better life knew Garfield not only as a child of poverty but as the son of pioneers. Although it was still a long and difficult journey from any part of the West to Was.h.i.+ngton, Garfield himself was a powerful link to the world of covered wagons and dirt farms. Since he had taken office, settlers, living on land they had cleared themselves and which, every day, they fought to defend, had felt secure in one thing at least, that they would not be forgotten in their nation's capital.

For freed slaves, an impoverished and, until recently, almost entirely powerless segment of the population, Garfield represented freedom and progress, but also, and perhaps more importantly, dignity. As president, he demanded for black men nothing less than what they wanted most desperately for themselves-complete and unconditional equality, born not of regret but respect. "You were not made free merely to be allowed to vote, but in order to enjoy an equality of opportunity in the race of life," Garfield had told a delegation of 250 black men just before he was elected president. "Permit no man to praise you because you are black, nor wrong you because you are black. Let it be known that you are ready and willing to work out your own material salvation by your own energy, your own worth, your own labor."

Even in the South, where he had once been hated and feared as an abolitionist and Union general, there was a surprising pride in Garfield's presidency. Although he had made it clear from the moment he took office, even in his inaugural address, that he would not tolerate the discrimination he knew was taking place in the South, what he promised was not judgment and vengeance but help. The root of the problem, he believed, was ignorance, and it was the responsibility, indeed " was not judgment and vengeance but help. The root of the problem, he believed, was ignorance, and it was the responsibility, indeed "the high privilege and sacred duty," of the entire nation, North and South, to educate its people.

Garfield's plan was to "give the South, as rapidly as possible, the blessings of general education and business enterprise and trust to time and these forces." The South had taken him at his word, and, for the first time in decades, had accepted the president of the North as its president as well. With Garfield in the White House, the New York Times New York Times wrote, Southerners " wrote, Southerners "felt, as they had not felt before for years, that the Government...was their Government, and that the chief magistrate of the country had an equal claim upon the loyal affection of the whole people."

Although each of these disparate groups trusted Garfield, it was not until they were plunged into a common grief and fear that they began to trust one another. Suddenly, a contemporary of Garfield's wrote, the nation was "united, as if by magic." Even Jefferson Davis, the former president of the Confederacy and a man whom Garfield had voted to indict as a war criminal, admitted that the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt had made "the whole Nation kin."

Together, Americans waited for news of the president's condition, helpless to prevent what they feared most. Although Garfield had not died in the attack, neither had he yet been saved. He was in an agonizing place in between, and as he suffered, so did his countrymen. Unable to rejoice or mourn, they waited in silence, and prayed as if they were at the sickbed not of a president but a brother.

What made the suffering even harder to bear was that, despite the fury directed at men like Conkling and Arthur, it was devastatingly clear that there was nothing and no one to blame. In no man's mind save the a.s.sa.s.sin's had the shooting achieved anything. It had not been carried out in the name of personal or political freedom, national unity, or even war. It had addressed no wrong, been the consequence of no injustice.

Garfield's shooting had also revealed to the American people how vulnerable they were. In the little more than a century since its inception, the United States had become a powerful and respected country. Yet Americans suddenly realized that they still had no real control over their own fate. Not only could they not prevent a tragedy of such magnitude, they couldn't even antic.i.p.ate it. The course of their lives could be changed in an instant, by a man who did not even understand what he had done. Americans suddenly realized that they still had no real control over their own fate. Not only could they not prevent a tragedy of such magnitude, they couldn't even antic.i.p.ate it. The course of their lives could be changed in an instant, by a man who did not even understand what he had done.

As he waited cheerfully in Cell Two, Charles Guiteau felt no remorse for his actions, or even fear for his life. He was, in fact, happier now than he had ever been. Having long thirsted for fame and recognition, he found the intense interest in his life and the frenzy of activity that surrounded him at the District Jail not terrifying but thrilling. "I felt lighthearted and merry the moment I got into that cell," he would later say.

Although reporters visited him on Murderers' Row in a steady stream, they recoiled when they met him. Even the most seasoned journalists were sickened by the arrogance and enthusiasm with which he recounted his plans to murder the president. "His vanity is literally nauseating," one reporter, Edmund Bailey, wrote. "Guiteau has an idea that the civilized world is holding its breath waiting to hear of the minutest details of his career."

Anxious to control what he was asked and how he was perceived, Guiteau wrote up a list of subjects that he wanted to cover, and brought the list with him to interviews. He also encouraged reporters to describe him in detail, from his dress to his demeanor, and he labored to give them his best stories, told with an almost theatrical flourish. "He spoke with deliberation," Bailey recalled, "occasionally emphasizing, somewhat dramatically, with his voice or by gesture, a remark which he deemed of transcendent importance, or chuckling at the mention of some incident which he considered amusing."

As much as he was enjoying himself, Guiteau expected to be shown respect during the interviews, even deference. He saw himself not as a man reviled by an entire country but as a national hero and the object of widespread fascination. "He objected strenuously to the 'continuity of his thought' being disturbed by interruption," Bailey wrote, "and frequently stated so in a most imperious way, intimating that the interruption had placed in immediate jeopardy of destruction some thought of vital interest and importance to the community." placed in immediate jeopardy of destruction some thought of vital interest and importance to the community."

Guiteau's desire for control extended even to the photographer who was sent to the prison to take his picture. He had always been extremely particular about how he was photographed, giving detailed instructions about every feature and flaw. "I want you to be sure and take a good picture of me," he once told a photographer. "Be sure you get the right expression of my face and eyes, and I think you had better not take a side view." Now, with the world watching, he was almost frantic in his concern that the picture be flattering. "I don't want to appear strained and awkward," he said as he sat down before the camera in the prison's rotunda. "If my picture is taken at all it must be a good one." Before returning to his cell, he asked the photographer for a $25 royalty fee. Before returning to his cell, he asked the photographer for a $25 royalty fee.

Having lived most of his adult life in dire poverty, surviving only by stealing, cheating, and borrowing, Guiteau spent much of his time in prison planning ways to make money. He believed that he would be released on bail by the fall, at which time he planned to go on a speaking tour that, he was confident, would earn tens of thousands of dollars. He also expected to now generate a considerable income from sales of his book, He believed that he would be released on bail by the fall, at which time he planned to go on a speaking tour that, he was confident, would earn tens of thousands of dollars. He also expected to now generate a considerable income from sales of his book, The Truth The Truth. Nor was he above selling personal items. In particular, he hoped to auction off the thin, ragged suit he had been wearing when he shot the president, which he hoped would bring a high price because of its historical value.

Beyond his financial needs, Guiteau did not worry about his own fate. As soon as Arthur was made president, he expected grateful Stalwarts to begin visiting him "by the hundreds." He also insisted that the American people were on his side. He was not allowed to read newspapers while in prison, the one deprivation he felt, but even if he had seen the countless editorials that demanded his hanging or the articles that described angry mobs forming across the country, Guiteau would not have believed them. He vowed that, if he were to be tried-and he did not think Arthur would let that happen-"a conviction would shock the public."

So carefree was Guiteau, he was quickly putting on weight. While the president was unable to keep anything down, had literally begun to starve, his would-be a.s.sa.s.sin ate everything he could get his hands on. By the time the summer was out, Guiteau would gain 10 pounds, a substantial amount of weight for a man who had been only 135 pounds when he was brought through the prison gates. time the summer was out, Guiteau would gain 10 pounds, a substantial amount of weight for a man who had been only 135 pounds when he was brought through the prison gates.

Guiteau also began to make plans for his future. Although by now he was used to being alone, he felt that it was time to remarry, and that he should take advantage of his newly won fame to find a wife. Having offered his autobiography for publication to the New York Herald New York Herald, he tacked onto the end a personal note. "I am looking for a wife and see no objection to mentioning it here. I want an elegant Christian lady of wealth, under thirty, belonging to a first-cla.s.s family. Any such lady can address me in the utmost confidence."

Guiteau also used his autobiography to announce his candidacy for president, a decision he believed the American people would not only welcome but actively encourage. "For twenty years, I have had an idea that I should be President," he wrote. "My idea is that I shall be nominated and elected as Lincoln and Garfield were-that is, by the act of G.o.d.... My object would be to unify the entire American people, and make them happy, prosperous and G.o.d-fearing."

While Guiteau sank deeper into delusion and the country staggered under the weight of shock and grief, a thin ray of hope shone late into the night, every night, in a small laboratory on Connecticut Avenue. From the moment he had left the White House, Alexander Graham Bell had begun work in earnest, thrilled to be back in his own laboratory, where there was little danger of interruption or distraction. He had often worked under intense pressure, under the threat of humiliation, even professional and financial ruin, but he had never before felt the weight of another man's life in his hands.

Bent over a long, rectangular work bench made of unpainted wood, Bell stared at the latest incarnation of his induction balance, modified to find a bullet in a man's back. He had been wrestling with the design for weeks and had solicited advice from some of the world's most respected scientists. He was in contact with everyone from the British inventor He was in contact with everyone from the British inventor David Hughes to the renowned mathematician and astronomer Simon Newcomb to inventors at Harvard, Johns Hopkins, and the David Hughes to the renowned mathematician and astronomer Simon Newcomb to inventors at Harvard, Johns Hopkins, and the Scientific American Scientific American. "Alec says he telegraphed all leading physicists here and in London and all here at least have answered with suggestions and expressions of interest and desire to help," Mabel wrote to her mother. "No one thinks they can do enough to help the President."

At this point in his experiments, Bell had made some significant changes to his original design, most of which revolved around the coils. He had tried winding the primary coil into a conical shape. He had adjusted the coils' size, making them "enormous" at one point, and as small as a bullet at another. He had adjusted the coils' size, making them "enormous" at one point, and as small as a bullet at another. Most important, he had decided to borrow an idea from Hughes and use four coils-two exploring and two balancing-rather than two. He was concerned that if he used his original instrument to search for a bullet, especially over a broad area such as the president's back, the movement might upset the coils' delicate balance. By using Hughes's four-coil design, he could rigidly attach the two exploring coils to each other. Any necessary adjustments could be made to the balancing coils, which would sit on a nearby table, undisturbed. Most important, he had decided to borrow an idea from Hughes and use four coils-two exploring and two balancing-rather than two. He was concerned that if he used his original instrument to search for a bullet, especially over a broad area such as the president's back, the movement might upset the coils' delicate balance. By using Hughes's four-coil design, he could rigidly attach the two exploring coils to each other. Any necessary adjustments could be made to the balancing coils, which would sit on a nearby table, undisturbed.

The result of Bell's experiments was the instrument that sat before him now. The exploring arm of the invention consisted of a handle, rounded at the top and narrower at its base, attached to a disk carved from walnut. On the other side of the disk were the exploring coils, which he had stacked on top of each other-the larger, primary coil against the disk and the smaller, secondary coil against the primary. Four wires from the coils had been threaded up through a hole Bell had hollowed into the handle. The wires stretched out like tentacles, connecting one coil to the telephone receiver and a balancing coil, and the other to a battery, the second balancing coil, and an automatic circuit interrupter.

Bell and Tainter had already begun testing the design. Before each test, they would fire a bullet against a board, to ensure that it was flattened like the bullet inside Garfield, and then conceal it in their subject. Bell had never hesitated to use unorthodox test subjects. Seven years earlier, while working on a phonautograph, a distant cousin of the phonograph, he had used a dead man's ear, soaking it in glycerin and water to make it pliable. Now, for Garfield, he used everything from a bag stuffed with wet Seven years earlier, while working on a phonautograph, a distant cousin of the phonograph, he had used a dead man's ear, soaking it in glycerin and water to make it pliable. Now, for Garfield, he used everything from a bag stuffed with wet bran to mimic the electrical resistance of a human body to a ma.s.sive joint of meat that he had bought from a butcher in an effort to " bran to mimic the electrical resistance of a human body to a ma.s.sive joint of meat that he had bought from a butcher in an effort to "more nearly approximate the dreadful reality."

On July 20, as promised, Bliss visited the Volta Laboratory, as had Joseph Stanley Brown the day before. Bliss, who had brought for the inventor two lead bullets exactly like the one lodged in Garfield, watched in silence as Bell repeated a number of his tests. Gripping the induction balance's handle in one hand, Bell carefully ran the instrument over his subjects. Every time, it found its mark, emitting its now-familiar buzzing through the telephone receiver. Bliss, who had brought for the inventor two lead bullets exactly like the one lodged in Garfield, watched in silence as Bell repeated a number of his tests. Gripping the induction balance's handle in one hand, Bell carefully ran the instrument over his subjects. Every time, it found its mark, emitting its now-familiar buzzing through the telephone receiver.

Just days after Garfield's shooting, Bell had begun carefully detailing his work on the induction balance in a laboratory notebook. He used a modest, bound book with a pebbled cover and a white label that, in handwriting that shook and swerved with each b.u.mp in the leather, read "Volta Lab Notes." On July 9, before he had even returned to Was.h.i.+ngton, he had expressed his confidence in his invention, scrawled over half an unlined page. "Ball can certainly be located by Induction Balance," he had written. "See it clearly."

There was no question that the invention worked. The problem was that it did not yet work well enough. Not only did the induction balance have to detect metal, it had to detect lead, which, among the metals, is one of the poorest conductors of electricity. What Bell yearned for was, quite literally, a silver bullet. "If people would only make their bullets of silver or iron," he complained, "there would be no difficulty in finding them in any part of the body!"

In its earliest form, the induction balance could detect lead buried only slightly more than an inch deep. After weeks of struggle, Bell had been able to increase that range to just over two inches. His fear was that the bullet in Garfield lay deeper than that.

Convinced that he could stretch the range even farther, Bell rarely left his laboratory, and the strain was apparent. He had dragged his fingers through his black hair and beard so many times, they stood out at sharp, odd angles, like untrimmed trees. Always a serious young man, he had never managed to look youthful. Even when he had fallen in love Always a serious young man, he had never managed to look youthful. Even when he had fallen in love with Mabel, her family had a.s.sumed that he was nearly ten years older than he was. Six years later, as he hunched over the induction balance, his face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl of concentration. No one would have guessed that the dour scientist had only recently celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday. with Mabel, her family had a.s.sumed that he was nearly ten years older than he was. Six years later, as he hunched over the induction balance, his face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl of concentration. No one would have guessed that the dour scientist had only recently celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday.

The Volta Laboratory, moreover, was far from an ideal work environment. Despite Bell's renovations, the building seemed less like a laboratory than a horse stable, which is what it had been. Bell used the saddle posts that still hung from the walls as coat hooks, but there was little he could do about the smell. No amount of scrubbing could free the small building from the stubborn odor of manure, which seemed to cling to the walls, attracting clouds of flies that drove Bell and Tainter to distraction with their soft, buzzing hum. So unhealthy was the laboratory, in fact, that just a few weeks earlier it had been reported to the board of health. So unhealthy was the laboratory, in fact, that just a few weeks earlier it had been reported to the board of health.

Bell hardly noticed the clutter or even the smell, but he could not ignore the heat. For a man who suffered blinding headaches brought on by heat, spending the hottest days of summer in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., was excruciating. The summer before, he had complained that his "headache has taken root in my left eye and is flouris.h.i.+ng!" Even when he could not bear the sound of a slamming door or ringing telephone, however, he had refused to stop working. "Alec says he would rather die than leave work," his exasperated wife had written to his mother.

So engrossed had Bell become in his work that he had little time to think about anything else, even his wife, who was pregnant and miserable in sweltering Boston. After not writing to her for more than a week, he apologized for his "epistolary silence," but then quickly lapsed back into it. Mabel, on the other hand, wrote frequently-both to Bell and about him. "Alec says he is well and bearing the heat well," she wrote to her mother. "Still I shall be glad to have him home again and his work accomplished. I fear he won't have the rest he so much needs after all."

Mabel understood the importance of her husband's work, but she also knew that he would literally work himself to death before he would give up. She had seen him sick with worry and determination too many times before, and it frightened her to know that this invention, and the good it could accomplish, meant as much to him as anything he had ever done. " could accomplish, meant as much to him as anything he had ever done. "I want to know how you are personally," she wrote to Alec a few days after he had left for Was.h.i.+ngton. "I fancy you are so eager and excited that you don't feel the heat as you otherwise would. Only for my sake do take care and don't wear yourself all out. I...would think the President's life a poor exchange for yours."

CHAPTER 18

"KEEP H HEART"

If wrinkles must be written upon our brows, let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should not grow old.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

While Mabel's anxiety for her husband grew, Lucretia's fears for James slowly began to ease. As the weeks pa.s.sed and the president, whom few had believed would survive the first night, lived on, clear-eyed and cheerful if too weak even to sit up, the sharp terror that had seized her began to loosen its grip. "I hope the dangers are nearly pa.s.sed," she wrote to a friend on July 14. "My heart is full of grat.i.tude...so full that I have no words wherewith to express it." By late July, she had settled into a nervous but steady vigilance. Although she continued to spend the greater part of her days and evenings at James's bedside, he had convinced her to sleep in a room in another corner of the house, apart from the shuffling and whispering attendants who always surrounded him, and even to venture out on occasion, taking quiet rides through the city. Although she continued to spend the greater part of her days and evenings at James's bedside, he had convinced her to sleep in a room in another corner of the house, apart from the shuffling and whispering attendants who always surrounded him, and even to venture out on occasion, taking quiet rides through the city.

When she was not with her family, Lucretia had always preferred to be alone. Since becoming first lady, she had dreaded public functions, painfully aware that she paled in comparison to her immediate predecessors, Julia Grant and Lucy Hayes, who were effortless and enthusiastic hostesses. "I hope I shall not disappoint you," Lucretia had told a group of women who had called on her after James's inauguration. She also found the rules of etiquette that accompanied her position confusing and almost impossible to follow. In her last diary entry before James was shot, she had lamented a small misstep in protocol that had been quickly reported in the newspapers. " newspapers. "Blundered!" she wrote. "I wonder if I shall ever learn that I have a position to guard!"

After the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, Lucretia endured a far more intense and prolonged public scrutiny than any first lady before her. In the midst of it, she won not only the approval of the American people, but their hearts as well. Throughout the country, families who had lost fathers, sons, and brothers to the Civil War, or had watched them suffer and survive, took pride in Lucretia's courage, knowing far too well how difficult it was to sustain, day after day. "In these few weeks of trial and anxiety," the New York Times New York Times wrote, "Mrs. Garfield has achieved a distinction grander and more lasting than ever before fell to the lot of a President's wife." Although worry had taken its toll, and Lucretia was even thinner and paler than before, she seemed to those around her to have an almost supernatural strength. " wrote, "Mrs. Garfield has achieved a distinction grander and more lasting than ever before fell to the lot of a President's wife." Although worry had taken its toll, and Lucretia was even thinner and paler than before, she seemed to those around her to have an almost supernatural strength. "She must be a pretty brave woman," Mabel wrote admiringly to Bell. "The whole nation leans upon her courage."

Lucretia's courage was buoyed by genuine hope. She refused to be lied to or s.h.i.+elded in any way, and she had never been one to pretend that things were better than they were. She now felt, however, that she had real reason for optimism. Not only had her husband survived the initial trauma of the shooting, but his natural vitality and strength had made it possible for him to fight off the early infection introduced by the bullet, and his doctors' fingers, in the train station. Since July 6, Garfield had been making slow but undeniable progress. His pulse and temperature had been steady. He had been eating and sleeping well, and the pain in his feet and legs had eased. "His gradual progress towards recovery is manifest," Bliss's morning bulletin announced on July 13, "and thus far without complications."

Hope filled the White House, and, as the nation eagerly read Bliss's bulletins, which were posted several times a day, every day, it radiated throughout the country. Every day, newspapers ran headlines proclaiming that the president was "On the Road to Recovery" and announcing that his condition was "More and More Hopeful." So confident of Garfield's survival was the governor of Ohio that he wrote to his fellow governors suggesting that all thirty-eight states designate a "day of thanksgiving for the recovery of the President."

Garfield himself made every effort to a.s.sure those around him that he was not only well but content. "You keep heart," he told Lucretia. "I have not lost mine." He endured without complaint excruciating pain and daily humiliations. "Every pa.s.sage of his bowels and urine required the same attendance bestowed upon a young infant," one of his doctors would recall. He could not bend his spine, so, in an effort to avoid bed sores, his large body was rolled from one side to another as often as a hundred times a day, a ritual that required at least three people and the strongest linen sheets the White House could find. Garfield, however, "rarely spoke of his condition," an attendant wrote, "seldom expressed a want."

The president's only complaint was loneliness. Although Garfield appeared to have improved dramatically, Bliss continued to deny him any visitors. For a man who cherished his friends and delighted in long, rambling conversations, this isolation was more painful than anything else he had had to endure. His only link to the outside world was through the one window not obscured by the screens Bliss had placed around his bed. It was the same view he had had from his office-a stretch of trees on the White House grounds, the unfinished Was.h.i.+ngton Monument, and a silver thread of the Potomac. Now, however, as he lay on his back, unable to sit up, his bamboo bed frame lifting him just high enough to see out the window, the scene must have seemed lonely and remote, almost unfamiliar. His only link to the outside world was through the one window not obscured by the screens Bliss had placed around his bed. It was the same view he had had from his office-a stretch of trees on the White House grounds, the unfinished Was.h.i.+ngton Monument, and a silver thread of the Potomac. Now, however, as he lay on his back, unable to sit up, his bamboo bed frame lifting him just high enough to see out the window, the scene must have seemed lonely and remote, almost unfamiliar.

Turning to his friend Rockwell, Garfield asked for something with which to write. After handing him a clipboard and a pencil, Rockwell watched as the president wrote his name in a loose, drifting hand that was almost unrecognizable as his signature. Then, underneath his name, he scrawled the words "Strangulatus pro Republica"-Tortured for the Republic. "There was never a moment that the dear General was left alone," Rockwell would later write, "and yet, when one thinks of the loneliness in which his great spirit lived, the heart is almost ready to break."

Bliss permitted no one to see the president but the handful of friends and family members who had become his nurses. His children, whom he ached to see, were allowed only rare visits. Even Blaine had not seen Garfield since the day he had knelt over him in the train station. Finally, nearly a month after the shooting, Garfield insisted that he see his secretary Finally, nearly a month after the shooting, Garfield insisted that he see his secretary of state. On a Friday morning in late July, Blaine was ushered into the president's darkened sickroom. He was relieved to see that Garfield looked better than he had feared, but he had time to do little more than rea.s.sure himself that his friend was still alive. Just six minutes after Blaine had entered the room, Garfield's doctors politely showed him back out. of state. On a Friday morning in late July, Blaine was ushered into the president's darkened sickroom. He was relieved to see that Garfield looked better than he had feared, but he had time to do little more than rea.s.sure himself that his friend was still alive. Just six minutes after Blaine had entered the room, Garfield's doctors politely showed him back out.

In part, Bliss defended his decision to keep the president isolated by insisting that it was dangerous for Garfield to talk. By talking, he said, Garfield moved his diaphragm, which in turn moved the liver, the region where Bliss believed the bullet had lodged. "But I move the diaphragm every time I breathe," Garfield had pointed out. Yes, he was told, but breathing was a gentle movement, while talking was violent.

Garfield did his best to follow his doctors' instructions, but as his old friend Swaim sat by his bed one night, trying to conjure a small breeze with a fan, he could not resist talking to him. Terrified that Garfield would somehow further injure himself, Swaim asked him several times to stay silent. Finally, when the president tried to strike up yet another conversation, Swaim snapped at him, "I won't talk to you and won't listen to you." Garfield laughed, laid his hand on his friend's arm, and said, "I will make a treaty with you. If you keep my mouth filled with ice I will keep quiet."

By late July, Garfield had seemed so strong and steady, so much like himself for so long, that it seemed impossible that he would not recover. Friends and family members in Ohio who had been packing their bags, expecting to go to Was.h.i.+ngton to be of support and help to Lucretia in her mourning, began canceling their travel plans. " Friends and family members in Ohio who had been packing their bags, expecting to go to Was.h.i.+ngton to be of support and help to Lucretia in her mourning, began canceling their travel plans. "Everywhere," one reporter wrote, "hope and confidence have taken the place of alarm and doubt." On July 21, Lucretia told Harriet Blaine that she considered her husband to be "out of danger."

The very next day, in a descent that seemed as sudden and mysterious as it was terrifying, Garfield began to lose all the ground he had gained. When his wound was dressed that morning, a "large quant.i.ty" of pus escaped, carrying with it fragments of cloth that the bullet had dragged into his back and a piece of bone that was about an eighth of an inch long. By evening, he was uncharacteristically restless and so tired he did not even try to speak. evening, he was uncharacteristically restless and so tired he did not even try to speak.

Bliss was not concerned about the pus. On the contrary, he considered it to be a good sign, as did many like-minded surgeons at that time. Just two years earlier, William Savory, a well-regarded British surgeon and prominent critic of Joseph Lister, had proclaimed in a speech to the British Medical a.s.sociation that he was "neither ashamed nor afraid to see well formed pus." A wound, he declared, was "satisfactory under a layer of laudable pus." Bliss could not have agreed more heartily. Garfield's wound, the medical bulletin announced that night, "was looking very well," having "discharged several ounces of healthy pus."

By the next morning, however, even Bliss's confidence had begun to fade. At 7:00 a.m., the president's temperature was 101 degrees. By 10:00 a.m., it had risen to 104. "He is feverish and quite restless," one of Bliss's attending physicians noted, "and has vomited three times this morning a fluid tinged with bile."

Quietly, Bliss sent for his surgeons, David Hayes Agnew and Frank Hamilton, who arrived in Was.h.i.+ngton by a quarter past eight that evening. As Garfield lay in his bed, "drenched with a profuse perspiration," the two surgeons examined his back and found a small pus sac about three inches below the wound. Using only a sulphuric ether, sprayed directly onto the site, to lessen the pain, Agnew made a deep incision into Garfield's back and inserted a large drainage tube.

Bliss's bulletin that day announced that "the President bore the operation well," and was "much relieved." Garfield's condition, however, continued to deteriorate. He vomited repeatedly and was constantly bathed in sweat. Two days after the first surgery, Agnew again operated on the president, enlarging the opening he had earlier made over his rib and pulling out fragments of muscle, connective tissue, and bone, one piece of which was an inch long. He vomited repeatedly and was constantly bathed in sweat. Two days after the first surgery, Agnew again operated on the president, enlarging the opening he had earlier made over his rib and pulling out fragments of muscle, connective tissue, and bone, one piece of which was an inch long.

Bliss, Agnew, and Hamilton would later insist that, as they examined and operated on the president, they used an adequate degree of antisepsis. Occasionally, they sprayed Garfield's back with carbolic acid or rinsed the wound with a "weak solution of car bolic [sic] acid (one-fourth of 1 per cent)." Like the surgeons who sterilized their knives and then held them in their teeth, however, the doctors' efforts did little more than give the appearance of antisepsis. Each time they inserted an unsterilized finger or instrument into Garfield's back, something that happened several times every day, they introduced bacteria, which not only caused infection at the site of the wound, but entered Garfield's bloodstream. in their teeth, however, the doctors' efforts did little more than give the appearance of antisepsis. Each time they inserted an unsterilized finger or instrument into Garfield's back, something that happened several times every day, they introduced bacteria, which not only caused infection at the site of the wound, but entered Garfield's bloodstream.

Unbeknownst to his doctors, cavities of pus had begun to ravage the president's body. One cavity in particular, which began at the site of the wound, would eventually burrow a tunnel that stretched past Garfield's right kidney, along the outer lining of his stomach, and down nearly to his groin. An enormous cavity, six inches by four inches, would form under his liver, filling with a greenish-yellow mixture of pus and bile. An enormous cavity, six inches by four inches, would form under his liver, filling with a greenish-yellow mixture of pus and bile.

Nearly a month had pa.s.sed since the shooting, but Bliss and his team of doctors were still probing Garfield's wound in the hope of answering one question: Where was the bullet? Eager to help solve the mystery, Americans flooded the White House with letters not just of concern and sympathy but medical advice. "We received every morning literally bushels of letters," one doctor in the White House would later recall. "Every crank...in the country seemed to think himself called upon to offer to cure the president." One man sent the doctors plans for a suction device that he a.s.sured them would suck the bullet right out of Garfield. Another suggested that they simply hang the president upside down until the bullet fell out. One man sent the doctors plans for a suction device that he a.s.sured them would suck the bullet right out of Garfield. Another suggested that they simply hang the president upside down until the bullet fell out. A man in Maryland wrote to Bliss saying that there was no reason for concern. The bullet was not in Garfield at all, but with him in Annapolis. A man in Maryland wrote to Bliss saying that there was no reason for concern. The bullet was not in Garfield at all, but with him in Annapolis.

Although Bliss admitted that he could not be certain where the bullet lay, he had made it clear from the moment he took charge of the case that he believed it was in or near Garfield's liver. In this belief, he was joined by nearly every other doctor who had examined the president. While Garfield was still at the train station, one doctor had claimed that he could feel his liver as he probed the wound with his little finger. Hamilton had told a reporter that he "had a suspicion, founded upon a good deal of evidence, that the ball was in the right iliac region, not far above the right groin." So convincing were the doctors that, soon after the shooting, the New York Times New York Times had announced that the " had announced that the "bullet has pierced the liver, and it is a fatal wound."

At least one doctor in Was.h.i.+ngton, however, believed strongly that the bullet wasn't anywhere near the president's liver-that it was, in fact, on the opposite side of his body. Frank Baker, a young man who had recently completed his medical degree and taken a position as an "a.s.sistant demonstrator of anatomy" at Columbian University (now George Was.h.i.+ngton University), had been carefully following Garfield's case since the day of the shooting. After considering the president's symptoms and applying some of the basic theories he had learned in medical school, he concluded that, although the bullet had entered Garfield's back on the right, it had come to rest on the left.

Baker even drew up a diagram, which traced with remarkable accuracy the course of the bullet. On July 7, just five days after the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, he showed it to three doctors, one of whom was Smith Townsend, who had been the first doctor to examine Garfield at the train station. Although he had little doubt that he was right, Baker never shared his theory with Bliss, or with any of the doctors caring for the president at the White House. Acutely aware of his own modest position, he worried that it would be disrespectful to question men of their stature. "I felt," he would later explain, "that it was improper to urge views which were diametrically opposed to those of gentlemen of acknowledged skill and experience."

As Baker had guessed, Bliss would not have welcomed his help. Even the physicians Bliss had personally invited to advise him on Garfield's care were strongly discouraged from disagreeing with him. Bliss's medical bulletins, which were uniformly optimistic, even when there was clear cause for concern, were a central point of contention. "These bulletins were often the subject of animated and sometimes heated discussion between Dr. Bliss and the other attending surgeons," one of the doctors would later admit. "The surgeons usually taking one side of the question and Dr. Bliss the other."

Bliss argued that he was only protecting the president, who had the newspapers read to him every morning. "If the slightest unfavorable symptom was mentioned in one of the bulletins," one of Garfield's surgeons recalled Bliss saying, "it was instantly telegraphed all over the country, and appeared in every newspaper the next morning."