Destiny of the Republic Part 3

Requests for public demonstrations poured in, and Bell's audiences never failed to be amazed and delighted by what they heard. One night, while giving a presentation in Salem, Ma.s.sachusetts, Bell directed his audience's attention to the strange, wooden box before them. Suddenly, they heard the voice of Bell's a.s.sistant Thomas Watson coming from the box-thin and tinny but unmistakable and, incredibly, speaking directly to them. "Ladies and gentlemen," Watson said, "it gives me great pleasure to be able to address you this evening, although I am in Boston, and you in Salem!" The crowd erupted in laughter and applause.

Bell would quickly learn, however, that a successful invention, especially one that held as much financial promise as the telephone, attracts not only admirers but bitter compet.i.tors. Had Samuel Morse been alive to witness the birth of the telephone, he could have warned Bell of the legal nightmare that awaited him. After Morse developed his telegraph in 1837, more than sixty other people claimed to have invented it first. Morse, whose long life was marked by a series of painful disappointments, spent nearly a quarter of a century fighting dozens of lawsuits. After Morse developed his telegraph in 1837, more than sixty other people claimed to have invented it first. Morse, whose long life was marked by a series of painful disappointments, spent nearly a quarter of a century fighting dozens of lawsuits.

As hara.s.sed as Morse had been, his troubles paled in comparison to what Bell would endure. The challenges to Bell's patent began almost immediately, although few of his accusers had anything to support their claims beyond their own fantasies. One man filed suit not only against Bell for the telephone, but against Thomas Edison for the transmitter and David Edward Hughes for the microphone. Another man eagerly hauled his invention into court to prove his claim against Bell. When it simply sat there, silent, his frustrated and humiliated lawyer exclaimed, "It can speak, but it won't!"

Although Bell deeply resented these accusations and the time and thought the lawsuits demanded, three years after his patent was issued, he entered a courtroom for the first time as a plaintiff rather than a defendant. In late 1876, he had offered to sell his patents to Western Union for $100,000, but had been soundly rejected. Just a few months later, the powerful company, worth an estimated $41 million, realized it had made a disastrous mistake. Instead of approaching Bell, however, and striking a deal, it decided to become his direct compet.i.tor. After establis.h.i.+ng the American Speaking Telephone Company, Western Union bought the patents of three leading inventors in telephony, one of whom was Thomas Edison. for $100,000, but had been soundly rejected. Just a few months later, the powerful company, worth an estimated $41 million, realized it had made a disastrous mistake. Instead of approaching Bell, however, and striking a deal, it decided to become his direct compet.i.tor. After establis.h.i.+ng the American Speaking Telephone Company, Western Union bought the patents of three leading inventors in telephony, one of whom was Thomas Edison.

Bell had little hope of competing with this behemoth. Not only did it have seemingly limitless financial resources to fund experiments and improvements, but it had an existing network of wires that stretched across the country. To add insult to injury, Edison, who was partially deaf, developed a telephone transmitter for Western Union that was better-both louder and clearer-than Bell's. To add insult to injury, Edison, who was partially deaf, developed a telephone transmitter for Western Union that was better-both louder and clearer-than Bell's.

In a court of law, however, Bell had two things that Western Union did not: irrefutable evidence that he had developed the first working telephone and, more important, a patent. When the company began to attack Bell personally, suggesting in the press that not only did he not have the skill necessary for such an invention but had stolen the idea, he set aside his hatred of lawsuits and fought back. The legal battle lasted less than a year, beginning in the spring of 1879 and ending in the fall, with Western Union admitting defeat and agreeing to shut down the American Speaking Telephone Company. In the end, it would hand over to Bell everything from its lines and telephones to its patent rights, receiving in return only 20 percent of the telephone rental receipts for just seventeen years.

With Western Union's defeat, stock in the Bell Telephone Company skyrocketed from $50 a share to nearly $1,000. The fighting, however, continued. In the end, Bell would face more than six hundred lawsuits, ten times as many as Morse. Five of them would reach the U.S. Supreme Court. One rival in particular, a brilliant inventor named Elisha Gray, would insist to his dying day that the telephone had been his invention. Years later, Gray's own partner would sigh, " The fighting, however, continued. In the end, Bell would face more than six hundred lawsuits, ten times as many as Morse. Five of them would reach the U.S. Supreme Court. One rival in particular, a brilliant inventor named Elisha Gray, would insist to his dying day that the telephone had been his invention. Years later, Gray's own partner would sigh, "Of all the men who didn't invent the telephone, Gray was the nearest."

While hundreds of men fought to be recognized as the inventor of the telephone, Bell feared he would never again be anything else. This one invention, he was convinced, would consume his life if he let it. "I am sick of the Telephone," he had written to his wife in 1878, just two years after the Centennial Exhibition. He yearned for the freedom he had lost, for time to think about other things. "Don't let me be bound hand and soul to the Telephone," he pleaded. Not only did Bell chafe under the yoke of his invention, complaining bitterly that the business that had sprung up around it was "hateful to me at all times" and would "fetter me as an inventor," but he worried that it would prevent him from helping those who needed him most.

His "first incentive to invention," he would often say, had been a neighbor's "injunction to do something useful." Rising to the challenge, Bell, just fourteen years old, had built a contraption that used stiff-bristled brushes mounted to rotating paddles to sc.r.a.pe the husks off wheat. To his delight, the machine had worked, and, in the thump and thwack of his first invention, he had witnessed the potential of his own ideas.

Bell soon realized that, through invention, he could change things, make them better. It was clear to him, moreover, that the world needed to be changed. In a time of widespread illness and early death, he understood grief and suffering as well as any man. Before his twenty-fourth birthday he had lost both his brothers to tuberculosis, leaving him an only child and the sole object of his parents' dreams and fears. "Our earthly hopes have now their beginning, middle and end in you," his father had written him after his older, and last, brother's death. "O, be careful."

From painful personal experience, Bell also knew how difficult life could be for those fortunate enough to survive disease or injury. His mother, who had homeschooled him and his brothers and had taught him to play the piano, was almost completely deaf. Eliza Bell had spent most of her life separated from the world around her by the ear trumpet she relied on to hear even faint fragments of words. Her second son, however, refused to be distanced from his mother by her handicap. Instead, he would put his mouth very close to her forehead and speak in a voice so low and deep she could feel its vibrations. His mother, who had homeschooled him and his brothers and had taught him to play the piano, was almost completely deaf. Eliza Bell had spent most of her life separated from the world around her by the ear trumpet she relied on to hear even faint fragments of words. Her second son, however, refused to be distanced from his mother by her handicap. Instead, he would put his mouth very close to her forehead and speak in a voice so low and deep she could feel its vibrations.

While Bell's mother had been left with some whispers of sound, his wife could hear absolutely nothing. Mabel Hubbard, whose father, Gardiner Greene Hubbard, had been Bell's earliest backer, had lost her hearing after contracting scarlet fever when she was five years old. As a teenager, she had been one of Bell's first students, and he had quickly fallen in love with her. Although Mabel was then only seventeen years old, ten years younger than Bell, he knew with an unshakable certainty that she was the only woman he wanted to marry. "I should probably have sought one more mature than she is-one who could share with me those scientific pursuits that have always been my delight," he had written to Mabel's mother. "However, my heart heart has chosen." has chosen."

Although, in the public mind, Bell was now an inventor, he still thought of himself, and would always think of himself, first and foremost as a teacher of the deaf. Not only did he teach, but he trained new teachers. This work, which he knew would never bring him wealth or fame, meant more to him than anything else he had ever done. "As far as telegraphy is concerned," he confided to Mabel, "I shall be far happier and more honoured if I can send out a band of competent teachers of the deaf and dumb who will accomplish a good work, than I should be to receive all the telegraphic honours in the world."

What concerned Mabel, however, was not what her husband worked on, but the feverish intensity with which he worked. Soon after their engagement, she had written to her mother that the endless hours Bell devoted to the telephone frightened her. "He has his machine running beautifully," she wrote, "but it will kill him if he is not careful."

Bell's parents, terrified that they would lose their only surviving child, had long pleaded with him to slow down. In the summer of 1870, just a month after the death of their oldest son, they had convinced Bell to emigrate with them from Scotland to Canada, where, they hoped, he would live a quieter life. To their frustration and despair, he had only worked harder, conceiving the telephone and then moving to the United States, where he worked day and night to give substance to his ideas. Ten years after they had left Scotland, Bell's mother wrote to him to ask if, now that he had accomplished so much, he would finally rest. "I wish very much...that you would for a time, turn away your thoughts altogether from the subject you have so long been poring over, and give your mind a rest," she wrote. "I am dreadfully afraid you are overstraining it." much...that you would for a time, turn away your thoughts altogether from the subject you have so long been poring over, and give your mind a rest," she wrote. "I am dreadfully afraid you are overstraining it."

Bell, however, wanted nothing more than to strain his mind, and could not bear to be interrupted when in the thrall of his thoughts. Now that he was married, he begged his wife to let him work as long as he needed to, even if he disappeared for days at a time. "I have my periods of restlessness when my brain is crowded with ideas tingling to my fingertips when I am excited and cannot stop for anybody," he wrote her in 1879. "Let me alone, let me work as I like even if I have to sit up all night or even for two nights.... Oh, do not do as you often do, stop me in the midst of my work, my excitement with 'Alec, Alec, aren't you coming to bed? It's one o'clock, do come.' Then...the ideas are gone, the work is never done."

When struggling with an invention, the only respite Bell would allow himself was to play the piano deep into the night. Although he had been taught by a mother who could not hear the music, he had quickly learned to play by ear, picking up tunes and then changing them, making them his own. As a boy, he had even dreamed of becoming a composer, but his father had discouraged him from pursuing a profession that, he believed, would reduce his son to little more than a "wee bit fiddler." Although he followed his father's advice, Bell never gave up music, clinging to it with a particular ferocity in times of stress and anxiety. It was a habit that may have given him some release but little rest, as he succ.u.mbed to what his mother described as a "musical fever."

Even to Bell's father, a highly regarded elocutionist who for years had worked in his study until two in the morning, developing a universal alphabet, his work habits seemed not just extreme, but dangerous. "I have serious fears that you have not the stamina for the work your ambition has led you to undertake," Alexander Melville Bell wrote his son. "Be wise. Stop in time.... I feel so strongly that you are endangering your future powers of work, and your life, by your present course, that I can write on no other subject.... Break your pens and ink bottles.... Wisdom points only in one direction. Stop work."

As much as he loved his wife and his parents, Bell either would not stop or could not. He tried to explain to Mabel why he worked such long hours, refusing to stop to eat or rest. He had, he said, a " or could not. He tried to explain to Mabel why he worked such long hours, refusing to stop to eat or rest. He had, he said, a "sort of telephonic undercurrent" in his brain that was constantly humming. "My mind concentrates itself on the subject that happens to occupy it," he wrote, "and then all things else in the Universe-including father-mother-wife-children-life itself-become for the time being of secondary importance."

By 1880, so frustrated had Bell become with the Bell Telephone Company-the time it stole from his laboratory work and the battles that he now realized it would always be fighting-that he simply quit. Bell Telephone Company-the time it stole from his laboratory work and the battles that he now realized it would always be fighting-that he simply quit. "I have been almost as much surprised as grieved at the course you have taken," his father-in-law, who had become the company's president, wrote him that summer. "My mortification and grief are only tempered by the hope that you do not realize what you have done." Bell, however, understood exactly what he had done, and he would never regret it. "I have been almost as much surprised as grieved at the course you have taken," his father-in-law, who had become the company's president, wrote him that summer. "My mortification and grief are only tempered by the hope that you do not realize what you have done." Bell, however, understood exactly what he had done, and he would never regret it.

Renting a small house in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., where his parents had settled, Bell at first tried to write a history of the telephone, to at least acknowledge the singular role it had played in his life. To no one's surprise, however, the temptation to return to his work quickly became too strong to resist. "However hard and faithfully Alec may work on his book," Mabel wrote, "he cannot prevent ideas from entering and overflowing his brain." Before long, Bell had opened a new laboratory. "However hard and faithfully Alec may work on his book," Mabel wrote, "he cannot prevent ideas from entering and overflowing his brain." Before long, Bell had opened a new laboratory.

In February of 1881, just a month before Garfield's inauguration, Bell eagerly moved his equipment and notebooks into a small, two-story brick building that stood in the middle of a large, open stretch of land on Connecticut Avenue. He christened the building the Volta Laboratory, in honor of the science prize that Napoleon Bonaparte had created at the beginning of the century and that Bell had won that past summer. Along with the prize had come a substantial sum-50,000 francs, or $10,000. With the money, he was able not only to lease the building but to hire an impressive young inventor named Charles Sumner Tainter. Bell had found Tainter in Charles Williams's electrical shop in Boston, the same shop where he had met Thomas Watson six years earlier. Watson had left the Bell Telephone Company about the same time Bell did, announcing his intention to travel and enjoy his modest wealth, and leaving Bell in great need of a man like Tainter. Bell had found Tainter in Charles Williams's electrical shop in Boston, the same shop where he had met Thomas Watson six years earlier. Watson had left the Bell Telephone Company about the same time Bell did, announcing his intention to travel and enjoy his modest wealth, and leaving Bell in great need of a man like Tainter.

Although by now even Bell admitted that he needed rest, he could not ignore the ideas erupting and colliding in his mind. "These are germs of important discoveries yet to come," he wrote his parents early that year, "and I find it hard to rest here with the laboratory so close at hand." One of these ideas was the photophone, a wireless telephone that relied on light waves to carry sound. So feverishly did he work on the invention that he finally had to seek medical care for an ailment that he described as "functional derangement of the heart brought on by too much Photophone."

At the same time that Bell was fretting over his new invention, he was also settling an old score. He had not forgotten that Thomas Edison had made and patented improvements to the telephone, and he now realized with delight that he could return the favor. A few years earlier, Edison had invented the phonograph, but had set it aside before it was finished. Bell and Tainter were certain it could be made into something practical, and valuable. "Edison was completely absorbed in the work of perfecting the electrical light, and seemed to have lost all interest in the phonograph and had failed to appreciate its importance," Tainter wrote. "But we had faith in its future."

Since he had freed himself from the telephone, Bell had been desperately looking not just for a new project, but for work that would capture his heart and imagination, work that had meaning. When Mabel had complained that a school for the deaf he had founded in Scotland took too much of his time, Bell, frustrated that she could not understand what seemed so obvious to him, had snapped, "I trust you will...see that I am needed needed." Nothing, not fame or wealth or even international recognition of his work, was as important to him as this. "I have been absolutely rusting from inaction," he tried desperately to explain, "hoping and hoping that my services might be wanted somewhere." The work he was now doing in the Volta Laboratory might not ease suffering or save a single life, but in this cramped and cluttered little building he knew that, if he were needed, he would be ready.

CHAPTER 7

REAL B BRUTUSES AND B BOLINGBROKES

Tonight, I am a private citizen. To-morrow I shall be called to a.s.sume new responsibilities, and on the day after, the broadside of the world's wrath will strike. It will strike hard. I know it, and you will know it.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

At 2:30 in the morning on March 4, 1881, the day of his inauguration, Garfield sat at a small desk in his boardinghouse in Was.h.i.+ngton and wrote the final sentence of his inaugural address. Although he had been thinking about the speech since his election and had read the addresses of every president who had preceded him, he had not put pen to paper until late January. Over the past month, a friend recalled, he had written "no less than a half-dozen separate and distinct drafts of the address in whole or in part, each profusely adorned with notes, interlineations, and marginalia." Then, three days before, Garfield had swept aside all these drafts, dismissing them as "the staggerings of my mind," and had begun again. When he finally finished, just hours before his inaugural ceremony, he laid down his pen, pushed back his chair, and prepared to bid "good-by to the freedom of private life, and to a long series of happy years."

Not long after Garfield climbed into bed that morning, tens of thousands of people left their homes and hotels and began walking toward the Capitol, determined to see the inauguration despite falling snow and bitter cold. With very few exceptions, presidential inaugurations had been held on the same day in March for nearly ninety years, since George Was.h.i.+ngton's second inauguration in Philadelphia. The four-month delay between With very few exceptions, presidential inaugurations had been held on the same day in March for nearly ninety years, since George Was.h.i.+ngton's second inauguration in Philadelphia. The four-month delay between the election and the inauguration was then thought necessary to allow the president-elect sufficient time to travel to the capital. the election and the inauguration was then thought necessary to allow the president-elect sufficient time to travel to the capital. As transportation improved dramatically, however, and circ.u.mstances such as the Civil War made the delay not just difficult but dangerous, the date had not changed, and would not for another fifty-two years. As transportation improved dramatically, however, and circ.u.mstances such as the Civil War made the delay not just difficult but dangerous, the date had not changed, and would not for another fifty-two years.

By the time a crowd had gathered on the National Mall for Garfield's inauguration, the snow lay an inch and a half thick over the broad greensward and on the buildings that stood, in various stages of completion, along its edges. To the east lay the Capitol, which, waylaid by two wars, one fire-set by the British during the War of 1812-multiple architects, and bad reviews, had taken seventy-five years to complete. Farther west, on the Mall's southern side, was a building of great interest to Garfield-the National Museum, now known as the Smithsonian's Arts and Industries Building. Although the roof had only recently been finished and the museum would not be open to the public until October, its temporary pine floors had been laid and waxed months earlier, in antic.i.p.ation of the inaugural ball it would host for Garfield that night.

Just beyond the Mall stood the painfully incomplete Was.h.i.+ngton Monument, which, in the words of Mark Twain, looked like "a factory chimney with the top broken off." Although it had been proposed in 1783, construction had not begun until sixty-five years later. By 1854, when the monument had risen to just 152 feet, the project ran out of money, and before work could begin again, the country was plunged into civil war. Even now, sixteen years after the end of the war, the monument still sat abandoned, cowsheds erected in its shadow and sheep and pigs milling around its marble base.

When the sun emerged from the clouds at 8:00 a.m., however, glinting off the white marble and new snow, even the blunt, unfinished Was.h.i.+ngton Monument seemed dazzling and inspiring. Two hours later, Pennsylvania Avenue was finally "free from snow," a journalist wryly noted, "if not from mud." It was also overrun with people. "The sidewalks could not contain them," one reporter wrote. "The crowd was so dense from the White House to the foot of Capitol Hill that they not only filled all the reserved seats, but all the windows, the sidewalks,... and much of the s.p.a.ce of the roadway." Those who could afford to spent anywhere from fifty cents to a dollar for a place in the roughly built tiered seating that, although "without cover and exposed to the full sweep of the keen west wind," gave the best view of the parade route. from fifty cents to a dollar for a place in the roughly built tiered seating that, although "without cover and exposed to the full sweep of the keen west wind," gave the best view of the parade route.

Determined to make up for the last inauguration, when there had been only a short procession and no inaugural ball because Hayes hadn't been declared the winner until March 2, the city had begun planning Garfield's procession immediately after his election. The fighting had started soon after. So bitter was the war between the various factions that President Hayes himself finally had to intervene. "The momentous question as to who shall ride the prancing steeds and wear broad silk sashes in the inauguration procession, and who shall distribute tickets of admission to the inauguration ball," a reporter wrote mockingly, "is now in a fair way of peaceful if not happy solution."

The moment General William Tec.u.mseh Sherman appeared on Pennsylvania Avenue, leading the presidential procession, any lingering disappointment or wounded pride was instantly forgotten. Straight-backed, almost regal on his spirited gray horse, Sherman was, a reporter wrote, "the very picture of an old soldier in his slouch hat and great coat," his orderlies "dash[ing] up to him on horseback from all directions." Behind him marched twenty thousand militia, including thirteen companies of artillery, the red-lined capes of their coats carefully pinned over their shoulders and their bayonets glittering in the sun. Soon after, the first strains of music from the Marine Corps Band could be heard. The band, which had accompanied the inaugural procession since Thomas Jefferson became president in 1801, was now led by the twenty-seven-year-old John Philip Sousa.

Suddenly, from within the crowd, a shout of joy rang out as the presidential carriage pulled into view. Garfield, with President Hayes at his side, rode in the back of an open carriage pulled by a team of four horses and driven by a legendary presidential coachman named Albert, who had trained under Ulysses S. Grant. As Garfield appeared, he was greeted with a cheer that rose "in a deafening chorus, and...was carried along the line without interruption." A well-known and -loved minstrel named Billy Rice waited patiently in the crowd until the president-elect was within earshot and then, in a salute to his boyhood days on the ca.n.a.l, yelled out, " yelled out, "Low bridge!" Breaking into a broad grin, Garfield grabbed his silk hat and ducked.

At precisely noon, a pair of ma.s.sive bronze doors opened onto the eastern portico of the Capitol, and the presidential party, which had disappeared inside an hour earlier, could be seen filing out. Although nearly a dozen people stepped onto the portico, all eyes were on only three: Frederick Dougla.s.s, who led the procession; the president-elect; and his mother, Eliza. It was an extraordinary scene, a testimony to the triumph of intelligence and industry over prejudice and poverty, and it was not lost on those who witnessed it. "James A. Garfield sprung from the people," a reporter marveled. "James A. Garfield, who had known all the hards.h.i.+p of abject poverty, in the presence of a mother who had worked with her own hands to keep him from want-was about to a.s.sume the highest civil office this world knows. As the party so stood for a moment, cheer after cheer, loud huzzas which could not be controlled or checked, echoed and reechoed about the Capitol."

After the crowd had finally quieted and he had been sworn into office, Garfield stepped forward to deliver the inaugural address he had finished just that morning. He felt deeply the importance of this speech, and he approached it with a seriousness of purpose that was almost didactic. He talked about education, which, he believed, was the foundation of freedom. He discussed the national debt, the challenges facing farmers, and the importance of civil service reform-at which point, a journalist noted, Roscoe Conkling, sitting directly behind Garfield, "smile[d] quietly at the hard task which Gen. Garfield had marked out for himself."

It was when he spoke about the legacy of the Civil War, however, that Garfield was most pa.s.sionate. With victory, he told the crowd standing before him, had come extraordinary opportunity. "The elevation of the negro race from slavery to the full rights of citizens.h.i.+p is the most important political change we have known since the adoption of the Const.i.tution," he said. "It has liberated the master as well as the slave from a relation which wronged and enfeebled both." Listening to Garfield speak, a reporter in the crowd of fifty thousand realized that, all around him, "black men who had been slaves, and who still bore upon their persons the evidence of cruel las.h.i.+ngs," were standing peacefully, even cheerfully, next to "Southern white men, who had grown poor during the war but who seemed, nevertheless, to harbor no ill-feelings." to "Southern white men, who had grown poor during the war but who seemed, nevertheless, to harbor no ill-feelings."

The painful past, however, had not been forgotten, nor did Garfield believe it should be. As he spoke, former slaves in the crowd openly wept. "The emanc.i.p.ated race has already made remarkable progress," he said. "With unquestioning devotion to the Union, with a patience and gentleness not born of fear, they have 'followed the light as G.o.d gave them to see the light.'...They deserve the generous encouragement of all good men. So far as my authority can lawfully extend they shall enjoy the full and equal protection of the Const.i.tution and the laws."

When he finished his address, Garfield stood for a moment on the portico, his hands raised to the sky. "There was the utmost silence," one reporter wrote, as the new president appealed "to G.o.d for aid in the trial before him."

The trial, in fact, had already begun. The rivalry between the two factions within the Republican Party had only deepened since the convention in Chicago nine months earlier. Roscoe Conkling's fury at Grant's defeat had turned to outrage when it became clear that Garfield would not bow to his every demand. In August, in a desperate attempt at reconciliation, party bosses had arranged a meeting at the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York. Garfield had traveled all the way from Mentor for it, but Conkling, who lived in New York, had not even bothered to appear. "Mr. Garfield will doubtless leave New York thoroughly impressed with the magnanimity of our senior Senator," a journalist sneered.

Conkling, it was later discovered, was in another room in the same hotel while the meeting was being held. He did not miss the opportunity, however, to let Garfield know what was expected of him. Through his minions, Conkling laid out his expectations, which, not surprisingly, revolved around patronage-its continuation and his control over it. Not hesitating to make the most audacious demands, he insisted that Garfield let him choose the next secretary of the treasury. Conkling would later claim that Garfield had agreed to everything, but Garfield said he offered nothing more than the a.s.surance that he would try to include Stalwarts in his cabinet and, when appropriate, consult with Conkling. " nothing more than the a.s.surance that he would try to include Stalwarts in his cabinet and, when appropriate, consult with Conkling. "No trades, no shackles," Garfield had written in his diary after the meeting, "and as well fitted for defeat or victory as ever."

Since Garfield's election, Conkling had decided to take a more direct approach. If Garfield would not let him personally select the cabinet, he would dismantle it, one appointee at a time. In a letter he had written to Garfield just days before the inauguration, Conkling had warned the president-elect that he would be wise to keep in mind who was really in charge. "I need hardly add that your Administration cannot be more successful than I wish it to be," he wrote. "Nor can it be more satisfactory to you, to the country, and to the party than I will labor to make it."

Garfield saw the truth in this threat before his administration even began. On March 1, Levi Morton, a Stalwart who had accepted his nomination as secretary of the navy, was pulled from his sickbed in the middle of the night, forced to drink a bracing mixture of quinine and brandy, and driven to Conkling's apartment-known widely as "the morgue"-to answer for his betrayal. At four the next morning, exhausted and defeated, Morton wrote a letter to Garfield asking him to withdraw his nomination. On March 1, Levi Morton, a Stalwart who had accepted his nomination as secretary of the navy, was pulled from his sickbed in the middle of the night, forced to drink a bracing mixture of quinine and brandy, and driven to Conkling's apartment-known widely as "the morgue"-to answer for his betrayal. At four the next morning, exhausted and defeated, Morton wrote a letter to Garfield asking him to withdraw his nomination.

Two days later, on the morning of his inauguration, Garfield lost yet another cabinet member to Conkling. At 8:30 a.m., he learned that Senator William Allison, who, just the day before, had agreed to be his secretary of the treasury, had also changed his mind. "Allison broke down on my hands and absolutely declined the Treasury," Garfield wrote in his diary. Like Morton, Allison was clearly unwilling "to face the opposition of certain forces."

Almost as maddening as Conkling's sabotage of his administration was the fact that Garfield's efforts to reunify the party and, he hoped, to rea.s.semble his cabinet were thwarted at every turn by the men who were supposed to be on his side. The Capitol building, where Garfield had spent seventeen years of his life, suddenly seemed a snake pit, a place where vicious, small-minded men lay in wait, ready to attack at the first sign of weakness. "The Senate," Henry Adams would write a few years later in his memoir, The Education of Henry Adams The Education of Henry Adams, "took the place of Shakespeare, and offered real Brutuses and Bolingbrokes, Jack Cades, Falstaffs and Malvolios,-endless varieties of human nature nowhere else to be studied, and none the less amusing because they killed." Falstaffs and Malvolios,-endless varieties of human nature nowhere else to be studied, and none the less amusing because they killed."

Although John Sherman had tried to forgive Garfield for winning the nomination, he remained deeply bitter over the loss of his best chance at the White House, and he wanted revenge. "The nomination of Garfield is entirely satisfactory to me," he had written after the convention. "As it has come to him without his self-seeking, it is honorable and right and I have no cause of complaint." Sherman did, however, complain loudly and often about the Stalwarts, doing what he could to punish those who had voted for Grant, and deepening the divide between them and Garfield. So transparent were Sherman's motives that the New York Times New York Times openly accused him of " openly accused him of "using his influence and power to gratify personal revenge upon men who fought him at Chicago."

The only person who had wanted the presidential nomination more than Sherman, and whose hatred of the Stalwarts-and in particular of Roscoe Conkling-ran even deeper, was James G. Blaine. Although fifteen years had pa.s.sed since their famous fight on the floor of Congress, Conkling and Blaine had never forgiven each other, nor did they intend to. Blaine was well aware that Conkling had stopped at nothing to deny him the power of the presidency, and now that his man, not Conkling's, was in the White House, Blaine looked forward to repaying the favor.

Blaine and Garfield had begun a lasting, if at times strained, friends.h.i.+p nearly two decades before, when they had entered Congress at the same time. Although Garfield liked and admired Blaine, he had learned over the years that his friend could be "a little reckless of his promises, and a little selfish withal." As Blaine had risen to power, becoming speaker of the house in 1868, he had made and broken commitments to Garfield with a nonchalance that Garfield found astonis.h.i.+ng. Nevertheless, Blaine was a highly skilled tactician and had a political ac.u.men that Garfield knew he lacked. "As a shrewd observer of events, he has few equals in the country," he had written of Blaine. "As a judge of men, he is equally sagacious."

As aware of Blaine's faults as he was his attributes, Garfield decided to offer his friend the most coveted position in his cabinet: secretary of state. The offer, however, came with an absolute and, for Blaine, painful condition: he could never again run for president. " he could never again run for president. "I ask this," Garfield told him, "because I do not propose to allow myself nor anyone else to use the next four years as the camping ground for fighting the next Presidential battle." Blaine accepted the condition, knowing that, at this point in his life, he had very little chance of being nominated anyway. More important, as secretary of state he would be in a powerful position not only to influence the president, but to shut Conkling out.

Knowing that Garfield wanted to have men from both factions of the party in his cabinet, Blaine tried everything in his power to convince him that this was not just a bad idea but a dangerous one. When Garfield asked Blaine what he thought about offering the position of secretary of state to Conkling instead, with the idea of keeping his friends close and his enemies closer, Blaine had been horrified. "His appointment would act like strychnine upon your Administration," he promised, "first bringing contortions, and then be followed by death." While Blaine was determined to keep Stalwarts out of Garfield's administration, he knew that he had to resist the temptation to rush in as Sherman had. Conkling and his men were formidable adversaries. To succeed, an attack would have to be both clever and quiet. "They must not be knocked down with bludgeons," Blaine brooded. "They must have their throats cut with a feather."

Although he had dangerous enemies and problematic friends, Garfield's biggest problem was his own vice president-Chester Arthur. Not only had the Republican nomination been thrust upon Garfield without his consent, but so had his running mate. Flush with victory, Garfield's supporters had begun to plan the campaign while still at the convention hall, and without consulting their candidate. Knowing that without New York it would be difficult to win the presidency, and that without Conkling it would be almost impossible to win New York, they had decided to offer the vice presidential nomination to one of Conkling's men. No one in the Republican Party was more Conkling's man than Chester Arthur.

Politically, Arthur was wholly Conkling's creation. The only public position Arthur had held before becoming vice president of the United The only public position Arthur had held before becoming vice president of the United States was as collector of the New York Customs House, a job that Conkling had secured for him and which paid more than $50,000 a year-as much as the president's salary, and five times as much as the vice president's. Even then, he had been forced out of office amid widespread allegations of corruption. " States was as collector of the New York Customs House, a job that Conkling had secured for him and which paid more than $50,000 a year-as much as the president's salary, and five times as much as the vice president's. Even then, he had been forced out of office amid widespread allegations of corruption. "The nomination of Arthur is a ridiculous burlesque," John Sherman had spat after the convention. "He never held an office except the one he was removed from."

Conkling had at first been as furious as Sherman about Arthur's nomination. After he was approached by Garfield's supporters, Arthur had searched the convention hall for Conkling, finally finding him in a back room, pacing the floors in an apoplectic rage in the wake of Grant's defeat. "The Ohio men have offered me the Vice Presidency," Arthur told him. Conkling, with barely suppressed fury, replied, "Well, sir, you should drop it as you would a red hot shoe from the forge." For the first time in his life, however, Arthur defied his mentor. "The office of the Vice President is a greater honor than I ever dreamed of attaining," he said. "I shall accept the nomination."

Although Conkling had stormed out of the room that night, it had not taken him long to realize that having Arthur in the office of vice president was nearly as useful as having Grant in the White House. Perhaps even more so. While Grant was very much his own man, Conkling had complete control over Arthur. Arthur was one of the two men Conkling sent to drag Levi Morton out of bed and force him to resign from Garfield's cabinet-just days before Arthur's own inauguration. A bachelor since the death of his wife five months before the Republican convention, Arthur even lived in Conkling's home at Fourteenth and F Streets in New York. By the time Conkling witnessed his protege's swearing in, in a private ceremony that took place inside the Capitol just before Garfield's inauguration, he was thrilled at the prospect of advising Arthur in his new role in Was.h.i.+ngton.

As strong a grip as he had on the vice president, Conkling was confident he would have little difficulty controlling the president. Even Garfield's friends worried that he was an easy mark. He was too interested in winning over his enemies to be able to protect his own interests. "For his enemies, or those who may have chosen thus to regard themselves," a friend had said of him, "he had no enmity-naught but magnanimity." When challenged in Congress by men for whom "no sarcasm was too cutting, no irony too cold," Garfield never rose to the bait. He would reply with such earnestness that, in the words of an early biographer, " friend had said of him, "he had no enmity-naught but magnanimity." When challenged in Congress by men for whom "no sarcasm was too cutting, no irony too cold," Garfield never rose to the bait. He would reply with such earnestness that, in the words of an early biographer, "a stranger entering the House after Garfield had begun his speech in answer to some most galling attack would never suspect the speech was a reply to a hostile and malignant a.s.sault."

Nor was Garfield capable of carrying a grudge, a character trait that neither Conkling nor Blaine could begin to understand. Years before, Garfield had resolved to stop speaking to a journalist who had tried to vilify him in the press. The next time he saw the man, however, he could not resist greeting him with a cheerful wave. "You old rascal," he said with a smile. "How are you?" Garfield realized that, in a political context, the ease with which he forgave was regarded as a weakness, but he did not even try to change. "I am a poor hater," he shrugged.

What Conkling did not understand, however, was that while Garfield was a poor hater, he was a very good fighter. As president, he wrote in his diary, he was "determined not to be cla.s.sified the friend of one faction only," and he vowed to "go as far as I can to keep the peace." That said, he had never before walked away from a fight, and he was not about to do so now. He had fought everyone from hardened ca.n.a.l men to unruly students to Confederate soldiers, and he knew that, whether he liked it or not, he now had another battle on his hands.

"Of course I deprecate war," he wrote, "but if it is brought to my door the bringer will find me at home."

CHAPTER 8

BRAINS, FLESH, AND B BLOOD

I love to deal with doctrines and events. The contests of men about men I greatly dislike.

JAMES A. GARFIELD

From an open window in his office in the White House, Garfield could smell the honeysuckle in full bloom on the southern portico, and he could see the broad stretch of the south lawn, dotted with diamond-, circle-, and star-patterned flower beds. In the distance was a lake, a glittering glimpse of the Potomac River, and the Was.h.i.+ngton Monument. Inside his office, which was on the second floor, just steps from his bedroom, a life-size portrait of George Was.h.i.+ngton hung on the north wall. "The eyes of Was.h.i.+ngton," wrote a reporter who visited the new president, "look out upon the unfinished monument, and there is marked sadness in their expression." Since Garfield's inauguration, however, a derrick now sat on the flat top of the truncated monument-the promise of progress.

The White House itself was also about to receive some much-needed and long-awaited attention. Soon after she moved in, Garfield's wife, Lucretia, "sat down to a good rattling talk over the dilapidated condition of this old White House" with two journalists, one of whom was Joseph Harper, a founding brother of Harper's Magazine Harper's Magazine. With their help, she convinced Congress to appropriate $30,000 for renovation and restoration, funds it had withheld for four years from President Hayes. As the structure had slowly disintegrated around them, Hayes and his wife had used rugs to cover holes in the Brussels carpeting and steered visitors away from rooms with curtains that were stained and torn. With their help, she convinced Congress to appropriate $30,000 for renovation and restoration, funds it had withheld for four years from President Hayes. As the structure had slowly disintegrated around them, Hayes and his wife had used rugs to cover holes in the Brussels carpeting and steered visitors away from rooms with curtains that were stained and torn.

With a family to raise in a dangerously neglected house, Lucretia was eager to get started, but she refused to paint a wall or replace a curtain before she did her research. Garfield accompanied her on her trip to the Library of Congress so that he could see his old friend Ainsworth Rand Spofford. Spofford, who had been the Librarian of Congress since 1864, knew Garfield well, ranking him among the most diligent researchers he had ever met and marveling at how, in the midst of a hectic work schedule, Garfield managed to keep "abreast of current literature, allowing no good book to escape him." Whenever Spofford received a box of books from New York or Europe, he would send word to Garfield so he could have the first look. Garfield enjoyed this proximity to knowledge so much that, when in Ohio one summer, he confided to a friend, "Every day I miss Spofford and our great Library of Congress."

As much as Garfield loved books, however, he spent the great majority of his time between congressional sessions not reading but playing. He and Lucretia had five living children: Harry, Jim, Mary-who was known as Mollie-Irvin, and Abe, who was named for his grandfather, Abram. While home in Mentor, Garfield had always made the most of his time with them, swimming, playing croquet, working on the farm, correcting their Homer recitations from memory, or simply reading to them by lantern light after dinner. With his daughter and four sons gathered at his feet, he read for hours without rest, eager to introduce them to his favorite works, from Shakespeare's plays to While home in Mentor, Garfield had always made the most of his time with them, swimming, playing croquet, working on the farm, correcting their Homer recitations from memory, or simply reading to them by lantern light after dinner. With his daughter and four sons gathered at his feet, he read for hours without rest, eager to introduce them to his favorite works, from Shakespeare's plays to The Arabian Nights The Arabian Nights to Audubon's detailed descriptions of the woodchuck, the brown pelican, and the ferruginous thrush. His summers and holidays at home, however, always seemed too short, and he regretted deeply the time he was away from his family. " to Audubon's detailed descriptions of the woodchuck, the brown pelican, and the ferruginous thrush. His summers and holidays at home, however, always seemed too short, and he regretted deeply the time he was away from his family. "It is a pity," he wrote, "that I have so little time to devote to my children."

For Garfield, being able to work from home was one of the few advantages of being president. He could check in on Harry and Jim as their tutor prepared them to attend Williams College, their father's alma mater, in the fall. He could give fourteen-year-old Mollie a quick hug before she scurried out of the house, books tucked under her arm, on her way to Madame Burr's School, which she walked to alone every day. His youngest sons, Irvin and Abe, were more easily heard than seen, their laughter echoing through the house. echoing through the house. While nine-year-old Abe liked to race his friends through the East Room on his high-wheeled bicycle, with its enormous front wheel, Irvin preferred to ride his bike down the central staircase and over the slippery marble floor, startling visitors and carving deep scratches into the wainscoting his mother was trying to carefully restore. While nine-year-old Abe liked to race his friends through the East Room on his high-wheeled bicycle, with its enormous front wheel, Irvin preferred to ride his bike down the central staircase and over the slippery marble floor, startling visitors and carving deep scratches into the wainscoting his mother was trying to carefully restore.

Garfield adored his children, but he was determined not to spoil them, or allow anyone else to. "Whatever fate may await me, I am resolved, if possible, to save my children from being injured by my presidency," he wrote. "'Hoc opus, hic labor est.' Every attempt, therefore, to flatter them, or to make more of them than they deserve, I shall do all I can to prevent, and to arm them against." In this endeavor, he had the help not only of his wife but of his practical and disciplined mother, Eliza, who had moved into the White House with the family. "I am the first mother that has occupied the White House and her son President," she wrote to a friend. "I feel very thankful for such a son. I don't like the word proud, but if I must use it I think in this case it is quite appropriate."

Although Eliza found the White House "cozy and home like," settling into it with her usual quiet confidence, she worried for her son's safety. During the campaign, she had noticed two strangers in Mentor who looked suspicious to her and had warned James about them. "Dear old mother," Garfield later told a friend, "she takes such an interest in her son." The new president and first lady, however, were too overwhelmed by political battles and social obligations to worry about anything else. "Slept too soundly to remember any dream," Lucretia wrote in her diary after her family had spent its first night in the White House. "And so our first night among the shadows of the last 80 years gave no forecast of our future."

While living in the White House allowed Garfield to see his children more often, it made it impossible for him to escape the long lines of office seekers who waited outside his front door. A few hoped to impress the president with their skills or knowledge, but the great majority of them simply intended to wear him down with dogged determination and lists of influential friends. " of influential friends. "This is the way in which we transact the public business of the Nation," a New York newspaper had recently complained. "No man has the slightest chance of securing the smallest place because of his fitness for it.... If your streets are so unclean to-day as to threaten a pestilence, it is because those in charge were appointed through political influence, with no regard to their capacity to work."

On March 5, Garfield's first day at work, a line began to form before he even sat down to breakfast. By the time he finished, it snaked down the front walk, out the gate, and onto Pennsylvania Avenue. When he learned what awaited him, he was dismayed but not surprised. Office seekers had begun showing up at his home in Mentor the day after the election, parking themselves on his front lawn, his porch, and, if they could get in the door, even his living room sofa. Most painful to Garfield was the fact that, within the throng, he often found his own friends. "Almost everyone who comes to me wants something," he wrote sadly, "and this embitters the pleasures of friends.h.i.+p."

Those who waited outside the White House, moreover, did not want simply to apply for a position. They wanted to make their case directly to Garfield himself. As the leader of a democratic nation, the president of the United States was expected to see everyone who wanted to see him. In 1863, a journalist close to President Lincoln and his wife had given his readers a tour of the White House. "Let us go into the Executive mansion," he wrote. "There is n.o.body to bar our pa.s.sage, and the mult.i.tude, washed and unwashed, always has free egress and ingress."

Garfield realized with a sinking heart that a large portion of his day, every day, would be devoured by office seekers. His calling hours were 10:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m., Monday through Friday, and he faced about a hundred callers every day. "My day is frittered away by the personal seeking of people, when it ought to be given to the great problems which concern the whole country," he bitterly complained. "Four years of this kind of intellectual dissipation may cripple me for the remainder of my life. What might not a vigorous thinker do, if he could be allowed to use the opportunities of a Presidential term in vital, useful activity?"

For Garfield, who treasured time not just to work but to read and think, the situation was untenable. "My G.o.d!" he wrote after a day spent wrestling with office seekers. "What is there in this place that a man should ever want to get into it?" So voracious were the people who prowled the halls of the White House searching for a job, that they sounded to one member of the administration like nothing more than " wrestling with office seekers. "What is there in this place that a man should ever want to get into it?" So voracious were the people who prowled the halls of the White House searching for a job, that they sounded to one member of the administration like nothing more than "beasts at feeding time." "These people would take my very brains, flesh and blood if they could," Garfield wearily told his private secretary.

Nor was the White House the only point of attack. In the opening days of Garfield's administration, so many people came to see Blaine at the State Department, asking for an appointment, that before the week was out their audacity no longer surprised him. "Secretary Blaine is especially sought after," reported the Was.h.i.+ngton Post Was.h.i.+ngton Post, "and it requires all the paraphernalia of messengers and ante-rooms for which the State department is noted, to protect him."

Conkling, naturally, was delighted. The annoyance that the spoils system caused Blaine and Garfield only made him more determined to defend it. Not that he needed any encouragement. During Hayes's administration, Conkling had taken every opportunity to belittle the president's efforts at civil service reform, which he jeeringly dubbed "snivel service." "When Dr. Johnson defined patriotism as the last refuge of a scoundrel," Conkling told reporters, "he was unconscious of the then undeveloped capabilities and uses of the word 'Reform.'"

Although Garfield found the relentless flow of office seekers maddening and time-consuming, he did not consider them dangerous, and he brushed off any suggestion that he might need protection. Even had he wanted bodyguards, he would have had a difficult time finding them. The Secret Service had been established sixteen years earlier, just a few months after President Lincoln's a.s.sa.s.sination, but it had been created to fight counterfeiting, not to protect the president. Over the years, the agency's duties had broadened to include law enforcement, but no particular attention was given to the White House. Then, the year before Garfield took the oath of office, Congress cut the Secret Service's annual budget nearly in half, to just $60,000, and restricted its agents, once again, to investigating counterfeiting cases. The Secret Service had been established sixteen years earlier, just a few months after President Lincoln's a.s.sa.s.sination, but it had been created to fight counterfeiting, not to protect the president. Over the years, the agency's duties had broadened to include law enforcement, but no particular attention was given to the White House. Then, the year before Garfield took the oath of office, Congress cut the Secret Service's annual budget nearly in half, to just $60,000, and restricted its agents, once again, to investigating counterfeiting cases.

While the president of the United States was allowed to walk the streets of Was.h.i.+ngton alone, as Garfield often did, news of a.s.sa.s.sinations continued to come in from across the sea. In 1812, the British prime minister, Spencer Perceval, had been shot and killed while he was standing in the House of Commons. A series of a.s.sa.s.sins had tried to kill Queen Victoria at least half a dozen times. Emperor William I of Germany survived an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt in the spring of 1878, only to be seriously wounded in another one just a month later. Soon after taking office, Garfield sent a " continued to come in from across the sea. In 1812, the British prime minister, Spencer Perceval, had been shot and killed while he was standing in the House of Commons. A series of a.s.sa.s.sins had tried to kill Queen Victoria at least half a dozen times. Emperor William I of Germany survived an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt in the spring of 1878, only to be seriously wounded in another one just a month later. Soon after taking office, Garfield sent a "strong dispatch of sympathy and condolence" to Russia following the a.s.sa.s.sination, on March 13, of Czar Alexander II. The czar, despite the fact that he had abolished serfdom in his country twenty years earlier, had been the target of several previous a.s.sa.s.sination attempts.

Americans, however, felt somehow immune to this streak of political killings. Although in his dispatch to Russia, Garfield made "allusion to our own loss in the death of Lincoln," Lincoln's a.s.sa.s.sination was widely believed to have been a tragic result of war, not a threat to the presidency. Americans reasoned that, because they had the power to choose their own head of state, there was little cause for angry rebellion. As a result, presidents were expected not only to be personally available to the public, but to live much like them. When President Hayes had traveled to Philadelphia five years earlier for the opening ceremony of the Centennial Exhibition, he had bought a ticket and boarded the train like everyone else.

The general consensus in the United States, moreover, was that if the president did happen to be at a slightly greater risk than the average citizen, there was simply nothing to be done about it. "We cannot protect our Presidents with body guards," an editorial in the New York Times New York Times read. "There is no protection with which we can surround them that will ward off danger or disarm it more effectively than our present refusal to recognize its existence." Garfield, unwilling to forfeit any more of his liberty than he had already lost to political enemies and office seekers, could not have agreed more. " read. "There is no protection with which we can surround them that will ward off danger or disarm it more effectively than our present refusal to recognize its existence." Garfield, unwilling to forfeit any more of his liberty than he had already lost to political enemies and office seekers, could not have agreed more. "a.s.sa.s.sination can no more be guarded against than death by lightning," he wrote, "and it is best not to worry about either."