Destiny of the Republic A tale of madness, medicine and the murder of a president

Candice Millard

Book - 2011

A narrative account of the twentieth president's political career offers insight into his background as a scholar and Civil War hero, his battles against the corrupt establishment, and Alexander Graham Bell's failed attempt to save him from an assassin's bullet.

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Subjects
Published
New York : Doubleday c2011.
Language
English
Main Author
Candice Millard (-)
Edition
1st ed
Physical Description
x, 339 p., [16] p. of plates : ill. ; 25 cm
Bibliography
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN
9780767929714
9780385526265
Contents unavailable.
Review by Choice Review

Significant scholarly attention has long eluded the story of James A. Garfield; however, with this book, former National Geographic writer Millard sheds light on one of history's forgotten presidents. Garfield was assassinated just four months into his presidency; accordingly, his list of accomplishments as president are slim, though his life story before his time in the Oval Office is most compelling and is well documented in this work. The author traces Garfield's hardscrabble upbringing through his evolution into a first-rate scholar and intellectual by his early twenties and remarkable military career during the Civil War. While each segment of Garfield's life is more than adequately handled, the real strengths of this outstanding book are connected to the intrigue that surrounded Garfield's assassination. In this regard, Millard's work really shines as she combs through the long agonizing path toward the grave. The medical treatment James A. Garfield received was as much the element behind his death as the assassin's bullet itself. Readers will appreciate Millard's talent for constructing fluid, eloquent prose throughout a book that does not waste one single word. Summing Up: Highly recommended. All levels/libraries. T. Maxwell-Long California State University, San Bernardino

Copyright American Library Association, used with permission.
Review by New York Times Review

A deranged man shot James A. Garfield, but it was his doctors who killed him. "Charlie said, 'Hell, If I am guilty, Then God is as well.' But God was acquitted And Charlie committed Until he should hang." - Stephen Sondheim "The Ballad of Guiteau," from "Assassins" IF an obscure 19th-century president falls, does he make a noise? A cruel thing to ask, but historically the assassination of James A. Garfield made little difference. The death of Abraham Lincoln, 16 years earlier, was seen as a Christlike sacrifice - and left generations of historians guessing what his continued presence might have meant for Reconstruction. The later shootings of William McKinley and John F. Kennedy allowed the ascent of two of our most dynamic presidents, Theodore Roosevelt and Lyndon Johnson, both of whom pushed through long overdue social and economic reforms. The death of President Garfield led to ... the presidency of Chester Alan Arthur, of whom the best anyone could say was that he was more honest than expected. Garfield was one of the "Ohio Seven," that spate of singularly undistinguished presidents from the Buckeye State who served between 1869 and 1923. At their best, they presided over some years of prosperity; at their worst, they gave us two of the most corrupt administrations in our history. Yet it is one of the many pleasures of Candice Millard's new book, "Destiny of the Republic," that she brings poor Garfield to life - and a remarkable life it was. He was the last president to be born in a log cabin. His father died when James was just 1, succumbing to "exhaustion and fever" after fighting a wildfire that had threatened his home. The boy's mother struggled desperately to make a living for James and his three siblings but donated some of her farmland so their community would have a schoolhouse. James was taught to consider himself the equal of any man - to walk "with his shoulders squared and his head thrown back," a trait he would always possess. A near drowning while he labored on the Erie and Ohio Canal convinced him that God "had saved me for my mother and for something greater and better than canalling," he wrote. For the next few years, he worked his way up through local schools and Williams College; at the Western Reserve Eclectic Institute (now Hiram College), a preparatory school, he mastered his studies so thoroughly that he was promoted from janitor to assistant professor. Returning there to teach, he became the school's president at 26. In his spare time, he passed the Ohio bar. Excelling both in combat and as a top staff officer, he rose to the rank of major general during the Civil War but was sickened by the carnage of battle. "Garfield would later tell a friend," Millard writes, "that 'something went out of him ... that never came back; the sense of the sacredness of life and the impossibility of destroying it.' " Elected to Congress in 1862, Garfield fought for black rights and liberty, writing in his pocket diary, "Servitium esto damnatum" - "slavery be damned." Modest to a fault, he toiled diligently in the legislative vineyards for 17 years. Even his foibles were endearing: he loved to hear himself talk (speaking "on the floor of Congress more than 40 times in a single day"), something he admitted was a "fatal facility." To everyone's amazement, he won the Republican nomination in 1880, in a deadlocked convention. With a plurality of just 10,000 votes, he became the last member of the House to go directly to the White House. Personally, Garfield said he preferred the "quiet country beauty" of Mentor, Ohio, where he worked the fields and raised five children with his wife, Lucretía. After a difficult courtship and early marriage, complicated by the death of the couple's first child, he began an affair with Lucia Gilbert Calhoun, a reporter for The New York Tribune; but by the time of his election he was inseparable from his wife, the "life of my life." Their exuberant extended family included his mother, who wrote a friend from the White House, "I feel very thankful for such a son." On the morning of July 2, 1881, the president of the United States burst into the room of his teenage sons and picked one up under each arm, swinging them about as he sang a Gilbert and Sullivan tune. He did a flip, "then hopped across the room balanced only on his fingers and toes." Garfield had reason to be happy. He had just finished outmaneuvering a major Republican rival and was about to travel with his boys to the Jersey Shore, where Lucretia was recovering from a bout of malaria. A few hours later he lay on the floor of the Baltimore and Potomac train station, shot in the back by a deranged individual named Charles J. Guiteau, who imagined he was responsible for Garfield's election and deserved to be made consul general to France. Like so many American assassins, Guiteau was a shadow of the man he shot - one of that chilling breed for whom, as Stephen Sondheim so brilliantly wrote in "Assassins," "There's another national anthem playing,/Not the one you cheer/At the ballpark." Raised by a father "so certain of his relationship with God that he believed he would never die," Guiteau, suffering perhaps from syphilis, led a peripatetic existence, failing as a lawyer and an evangelist, unable to find love even at a free love colony, where the women nicknamed him "Charles Gitout." Unable to do, he would not stop believing himself a great man, awarding himself august, delusional titles like "Premier of the British Lion." His behavior became so strange that his wife and siblings feared for their lives and his, and his sister tried to find him help. In a depressingly familiar story, this proved hard to come by - but for Guiteau to pick up a cheap gun was easy. Denied a position befitting his illusions, he decided God wanted him to kill the president and stalked Garfield for weeks before the shooting. Had Garfield been left where he lay, he might well have survived; the bullet failed to hit his spine or penetrate any vital organs. Instead, he was given over to the care of doctors, who basically tortured him to death over the next 11 weeks. Two of them repeatedly probed his wound with their unsterilized fingers and instruments before having him carted back to the White House on a hay-and-horsehair mattress. There, control of the president was seized by a quack with the incredible name of Dr. Doctor Willard Bliss. Dr. Doctor Bliss insisted on stuffing Garfield with heavy meals and alcohol, which brought on protracted waves of vomiting. He and his assistants went on probing the wound several times a day, causing infections that burrowed enormous tunnels of pus throughout the president's body. Garfield's medical "care" is one of the most fascinating, if appalling, parts of Millard's narrative. Joseph Lister had been demonstrating for years how his theories on the prevention of infection could save lives and limbs, but American doctors largely ignored his advice, not wanting to "go to all the trouble" of washing hands and instruments, Millard writes, enamored of the macho trappings of their profession, the pus and blood and what they referred to fondly as the "good old surgical stink" of the operating room. Further undermining the president's recovery was his sickroom in the White House - then a rotting, vermin-ridden structure with broken sewage pipes. Outside, Washington was a pestilential stink hole; besides the first lady, four White House servants and Guiteau himself had contracted malaria. Hoping to save Garfield from the same, Bliss fed him large doses of quinine, causing more intestinal cramping. The people rallied around their president even as his doctors failed him. The great Western explorer and geologist John Wesley Powell helped design America's first air-conditioning system to relieve Garfield's agony. Alexander Graham Bell worked tirelessly to invent a device that could locate the bullet. (It failed when Dr. Bliss insisted he search only the wrong side of Garfield's torso.) Two thousand people worked overnight to lay 3,200 feet of railroad track, so the president might be taken to a cottage on the Jersey Shore. When the engine couldn't make the grade, hundreds of men stepped forward to push his train up the final hill. The president endured everything with amazing fortitude and patience, even remarking near the end, when he learned a fund was being taken up for his family: "How kind and thoughtful! What a generous people!" "General Garfield died from malpractice," Guiteau claimed, defending himself at his spectacle of a trial. This was true, but not enough to save Guiteau from the gallows. MILLARD, whose previous book, "The River of Doubt," was about Theodore Roosevelt's near-fatal journey of exploration in South America, is outstanding on this still darker story. She makes, at times, the common biographer's mistake of inflating her subject's importance and virtues. Contrary to what she implies, neither Garfield's administration nor his death brought about advances in civil rights, nor a grand reconciliation with the South, then busy creating the Jim Crow state. The Garfield aphorisms with which she begins most chapters are often no better than greeting card sentiments. ("If wrinkles must be written upon our brows, let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should not grow old.") Yet such enthusiasms are understandable concerning such a generally admirable man. Though Garfield's death had little historical significance, Millard has written us a penetrating human tragedy. Control over Garfield's care was seized by a quack with the incredible name of Dr. Doctor Willard Bliss. Kevin Baker is writing a social history of New York City baseball.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 2, 2011]
Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* What a shame for himself and for the country that the kind, intelligent, and charming president James Garfield did not see his administration through to completion. (He had been in office only four months when, in July 1881, he was shot by a deranged office seeker; in September, he died.) That is the sentiment the reader cannot help but derive from this splendidly insightful, three-way biography of the president; Charles Guiteau, who was Garfield's assassin; and inventor Alexander Graham Bell, whose part in the story was an unsuccessful deathbed attempt to locate the bullet lodged somewhere in the president's body. Garfield, who largely educated himself and rose to be a Civil War general and an Ohio representative in the House, was the dark-horse candidate emergent from the 1880 Republican National Convention. Guiteau, on the other hand, led a troubled life and came to believe it was his divine mission to eliminate Garfield in revenge for the new president's steps against proponents of the spoils system. Bell could have been the hero of the whole sad story, but his technology failed to save the stricken president's life. Millard's book, which follows her deeply compelling The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt's Darkest Journey (2005), stands securely at the crossroads of popular and professional history an intersection as productive of learning for the reader as it undoubtedly was for the author.--Hooper, Brad Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

This rendering of an oft-told tale brings to life a moment in the nation's history when access to the president was easy, politics bitter, and medical knowledge slight. James A. Garfield, little recalled today, gained the Republican nomination for president in 1880 as a dark-horse candidate and won. Then, breaking free of the sulfurous factional politics of his party, he governed honorably, if briefly, until shot by an aggrieved office seeker. Under Millard's (The River of Doubt) pen, Garfield's deranged assassin, his incompetent doctors (who, for example, ignored antisepsis, leading to a blood infection), and the bitter politics of the Republican Party come sparklingly alive through deft characterizations. Even Alexander Graham Bell, who hoped that one of his inventions might save the president's life, plays a role. Millard also lays the groundwork for a case that, had Garfield lived, he would have proved an effective and respected chief executive. Today, he would surely have survived, probably little harmed by the bullet that lodged in him, but unimpeded infection took his life. His death didn't greatly harm the nation, and Millard's story doesn't add much to previous understanding, but it's hard to imagine its being better told. Illus. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

President Garfield's assassination has been studied little when compared with Lincoln's and JFK's, but Millard here reveals in great detail the facts of the crime and the power struggles that followed. She also highlights the hideous medical mistakes that, she asserts, ultimately put Garfield in the ground. Narrator Paul Michael is in good form. (LJ 11/15/11) (c) Copyright 2012. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

The shocking shooting and the painful, lingering death of the 20th president."Killed by a disappointed office seeker."Thus most history texts backhand the self-made James Garfield (18311881), notwithstanding his distinguished career as a college professor, lawyer, Civil War general, exceptional orator, congressman and all too briefly president. Millard follows up her impressive debut (The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt's Darkest Journey, 2005) by colorfully unpacking this summary dismissal, demonstrating the power of expert storytelling to wonderfully animate even the simplest facts. As she builds to the president's fatal encounter with his assassin, she details the intra-party struggle among Republicans that led to Garfield's surprise 1880 nomination. The Stalwarts, worshippers of Grant, defenders of the notorious spoils system, battled the Half-Breeds, reformers who took direction from Senators John Sherman and James G. Blaine. The scheming, delusional Charles J. Guiteau, failed author, lawyer and evangelist, listened to no one, except perhaps the voices in his head assuring him he was an important political player, instrumental in Garfield's election and deserving of the consulship to Paris. After repeated rebuffs, he determined that only "removing the president" would allow a grateful Vice President Chester A. Arthur to reward him. During the nearly three excruciating months Garfield lay dying, Alexander Graham Bell desperately scrambled to perfect his induction balance (a metal detector) in time to locate the lead bullet lodged in the stricken president's back. Meanwhile, Garfield's medical team persistently failed to observe British surgeon Joseph Lister's methods of antisepsisthe American medical establishment rejected the idea of invisible germs as ridiculousa neglect that almost surely killed the president. Moving set piecesthe 1876 U.S. Centennial Exhibition which Garfield attended and where both Lister and Bell presented, the deadlocked Republican Convention, the steamship explosion that almost killed Guiteau, the White House death watchand sharply etched sketches of Blaine, the overwhelmed Arthur and larger portraits of the truly impressive Garfield and the thoroughly insane Guiteau make for compulsive reading.Superb American history.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

CHAPTER 10 The Dark Dreams of Presidents History is but the unrolled scroll of Prophecy. james a. garfield The idea came to Guiteau suddenly, "like a flash," he would later say. On May 18, two days after Conkling's dramatic resignation, Guiteau, "depressed and perplexed . . . wearied in mind and body," had climbed into bed at 8:00 p.m., much earlier than usual. He had been lying on his cot in his small, rented room for an hour, unable to sleep, his mind churning, when he was struck by a single, pulsing thought: "If the President was out of the way every thing would go better." Guiteau was certain the idea had not come from his own, feverish mind. It was a divine inspiration, a message from God. He was, he believed, in a unique position to recognize divine inspiration when it occurred because it had happened to him before. Even before the wreck of the steamship Stonington , he had been inspired, he said, to join the Oneida Community, to leave so that he might start a religious newspaper, and to become a traveling evangelist. Each time God had called him, he had answered. This time, for the first time, he hesitated. Despite his certainty that the message had come directly from God, he did not want to listen. The next morning, when the thought returned "with renewed force," he recoiled from it. "I was kept horrified," he said, "kept throwing it off." Wherever he went and whatever he did, however, the idea stayed with him. "It kept growing upon me, pressing me, goading me." Guiteau had "no ill-will to the President," he insisted. In fact, he believed that he had given Garfield every opportunity to save his own life. He was certain that God wanted Garfield out of the way because he was a danger to the Republican Party and, ultimately, the American people. As Conkling's war with Garfield had escalated, Guiteau wrote to the president repeatedly, advising him that the best way to respond to the senator's demands was to give in to them. "It seems to me that the only way out of this difficulty is to withdraw Mr. R.," he wrote, referring to Garfield's appointment of Judge Robertson to run the New York Customs House. "I am on friendly terms with Senator Conkling and the rest of our Senators, but I write this on my own account and in the spirit of a peacemaker." Guiteau also felt that he had done all he could to warn Garfield about Blaine. After the secretary of state had snapped at him outside of the State Department, he bitterly recounted the exchange in a letter to Garfield. "Until Saturday I supposed Mr. Blaine was my friend in the matter of the Paris consulship," he wrote, still wounded by the memory. " 'Never speak to me again,' said Mr. Blaine, Saturday, 'on the Paris consulship as long as you live.' Heretofore he has been my friend." Even after his divine inspiration, Guiteau continued to appeal to Garfield. On May 23, he again wrote to the president, advising him to demand Blaine's "immediate resignation." "I have been trying to be your friend," he wrote darkly. "I do not know whether you appreciate it or not." Garfield would be wise to listen to him, he warned, "otherwise you and the Republican party will come to grief. I will see you in the morning if I can and talk with you." Guiteau did not see Garfield the next morning, or any day after that. Unknown to him, he had been barred from the president's office. Even among the strange and strikingly persistent office seekers that filled Garfield's anteroom every day, Guiteau had stood out. Brown, Garfield's private secretary, had long before relegated Guiteau's letters to what was known as "the eccentric file," but he continued to welcome him to the White House with the same courtesy he extended to every other caller. That did not change until Guiteau's eccentricity and doggedness turned into belligerence. Finally, after a heated argument with one of the president's ushers that ended with Guiteau sitting in a corner of the waiting room, glowering, Brown issued orders that "he should be quietly kept away." Soon after, Guiteau stopped going to the White House altogether. He gave up trying to secure an appointment, and he no longer fought the press of divine inspiration. For two weeks, he had prayed to God to show him that he had misunderstood the message he had received that night. "That is the way I test the Deity," he would later explain. "When I feel the pressure upon me to do a certain thing and I have any doubt about it I keep praying that the Deity may stay it in some way if I am wrong." Despite his prayers and constant vigilance, he had received no such sign. By the end of May, Guiteau had given himself up entirely to his new obsession. Alone in his room, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, he pored over newspaper accounts of the battle between Conkling and the White House, fixating on any criticism of Garfield, real or implied. "I kept reading the papers and kept being impressed," he remembered, "and the idea kept bearing and bearing and bearing down upon me." Finally, on June 1, thoroughly convinced of "the divinity of the inspiration," he made up his mind. He would kill the president.   The next day, Guiteau began to prepare. Although he believed he was doing God's work, he had been driven for so long by a desire for fame and prestige that his first thought was not how he would assassinate the president, but the attention he would receive after he did. "I thought just what people would talk and thought what a tremendous excitement it would create," he wrote, "and I kept thinking about it all week." With his forthcoming celebrity in mind, Guiteau decided that his first task should be to edit a religious book he had written several years ago called The Truth: A Companion to the Bible . The publicity it would bring the book, he believed, was one of the principal reasons God wanted him to assassinate the president. "Two points will be accomplished," he wrote. "It will save the Republic, and create a demand for my book, The Truth. . . . This book was not written for money. It was written to save souls. In order to attract public attention the book needs the notice the President's removal will give it." There would be a great demand for the book following Garfield's death, he reasoned, so it should be "in proper shape." As was true of most things in Guiteau's life, The Truth was largely stolen. In a single- sentence preface, he insisted that "a new line of thought runs through this book, and the Author asks for it a careful attention." There was, however, nothing new about The Truth . The ideas, most of them copied verbatim, came from a book called The Berean , which John Humphrey Noyes, the founder of Oneida, had written in 1847, and which Guiteau's father had treasured, believing that it was "better than the Bible." Even The Truth 's publication had been fraudulent. Guiteau had tried to persuade D. Lothrop & Co., one of the most respected publishers in Boston, to publish the book, but they had declined. Determined to see The Truth in print, and for it to have the illusion, if not the reality, of respectability, he hired a printing company to produce a thousand copies, all with "D. Lothrop and Company" on the binding and cover page. After trying unsuccessfully to sell the book for 50 cents apiece on the streets of Boston, he left town without paying the printer. The next stage of Guiteau's plan was more difficult than the first. If he was to assassinate the president, he realized, he would need a gun. Guiteau knew nothing about guns. Not only had he never owned a gun, he had never even fired one. On June 6, he left his boardinghouse and walked to a sporting goods store that he had spotted on the corner of Fifteenth and F Streets, on the ground floor of a tavern. Upon opening the door, his eyes immediately fell on a showcase that held a selection of revolvers. He walked directly to the case, pointed to the largest gun, and asked the store's owner, John O'Meara, if he could hold it. He "did not call it by name or ask for any special pistol," O'Meara would later recall. "He examined it carefully, and inquired as to its accuracy, and made a few commonplace remarks." After a few minutes, Guiteau handed the revolver back to O'Meara and told him that he would return in a few days. Two days later, George Maynard, the man from whom Guiteau had borrowed $10 three months earlier, was at work when he looked up to find the small, thin man standing once more in his office. He had walked in so quietly that Maynard had not even heard him. Looking at Guiteau, he noticed that he held his head at an unusual angle, tilted slightly forward. "He had a peculiar manner," Maynard would later say, "a peculiar attitude, a peculiar walk." What struck Maynard most of all, however, was the desperation he saw in the man standing before him. "The principal thing," he remembered, "was that he looked hungry." Guiteau explained that he had received the $150 he had been expecting in March, but had used it to pay other bills. He was now, he said, awaiting an even larger check, this one for $500. In the meantime, he needed money to pay his board bill. If Maynard would give him $15, he would pay him back the full $25 as soon as he received his next windfall. Although by this point Maynard could not have had any hope of being repaid, he was, as Guiteau knew, "a good fellow." Three minutes after he had walked in the door, Guiteau left with enough money to buy a gun. That same day, Guiteau returned to John O'Meara's shop, as he had promised he would. The last time he was there, he had seen two revolvers that interested him--one with a wooden handle that he could have for nine dollars, and another that cost a dollar more but had an ivory handle. He was drawn toward the more expensive gun, picturing it on display in the State Department's library. Cradling the revolver in his hands, he asked O'Meara about its force. It was, the shop owner said, a self-cocking .44 caliber British Bulldog. "One of the strongest pistols made." After striking a deal with O'Meara--ten dollars for the revolver, a box of cartridges, and a two-bladed, pearl-handled penknife that had caught his eye--Guiteau asked him where he could take the gun to test it. O'Meara warned Guiteau that he would need to leave the city limits, and suggested he try the river's edge. Taking his advice, Guiteau went to the Potomac one evening and shot ten cartridges with his new gun, sometimes aiming for the river, other times trying to hit a sapling growing nearby. Everything about the gun, from the feel of it in his hand to the damage it wrought, was utterly new and unfamiliar to him. "I knew nothing about it," he would later say, "no more than a child."   In his letters and, he would later insist, his thoughts, Guiteau never referred to what he was about to do as murder, or even assassination. He was simply removing the president--in his mind, an act not of violence or cruelty but practicality. Garfield was a danger to his party and his country, and God had asked Guiteau to correct the situation. "The Lord inspired me to attempt to remove the President in preference to some one else, because I had the brains and the nerve to do the work," he would explain. "The Lord always employs the best material to do His work." Guiteau had no illusions about what would happen to him after he assassinated the president. He had been twenty-three years old when John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln, and he could not have forgotten the manhunt that had led to Booth's death. Prepared to kill for God but not to die, his only other option, he suspected, was imprisonment. As he had spent a month in the Tombs, he knew how bad jail could be. He felt, therefore, that it would be wise to make a trip to the District Jail. "I wanted to see what kind of a jail it was," he would later say. "I knew nothing about where it was, nor the character of the building, nor anything." One Saturday morning, Guiteau took a streetcar from the Riggs Hotel as far as he could and then walked another three-quarters of a mile before reaching the prison. Walking "leisurely" to the warden's office, he rang the doorbell and waited calmly. When a guard arrived, he asked for a tour. Although the jail did not allow tours on Saturdays, Guiteau felt that he had gotten a good enough look at the building. "I thought it was a very excellent jail," he said. "It is the best jail in America, I understand." Satisfied that the prison where he would be taken was far superior to the Tombs, Guiteau had nothing left to do but track down his prey. All the time and energy he had once spent trying to secure an appointment, he now devoted to following Garfield. Guiteau knew that the president, who had no Secret Service agents and was in frequent contact with the public, was an easy target, especially outside the White House. "It would not do to go to the White House and attempt it, because there were too many of his employees about," Guiteau wrote. "I looked around for several days to try and get a good chance at him." Finally, Guiteau chose the one place in Washington where Garfield had always felt safe and at peace: his church. Killing the president in church was not sacrilegious, Guiteau argued. On the contrary, "there could not possibly be a better place to remove a man than at his devotions." Garfield, moreover, could be counted on to attend church. A member of the Disciples of Christ since childhood, and himself a minister, he had faithfully attended the Vermont Avenue Christian Church in Washington since he entered Congress nearly twenty years earlier. He had been an active and involved parishioner, teaching Sunday school and, in 1869, helping the congregation raise enough money to build a larger church. The church's pastor, Reverend S. D. Power, said that he felt God had "a wise and holy purpose" for Garfield "and had raised him up as a Christian leader of a great people." Guiteau knew exactly where Garfield's church was because he had been there before. Several months earlier, drawn to the church out of curiosity, he had watched from one of the pews as Garfield entered with Lucretia and their five children. Garfield had missed many Sundays since then, choosing instead to stay home with Lucretia during her illness. As she had begun to recover, however, he had come back, grateful to the congregation for their many prayers. Guiteau returned to Garfield's church on June 12. The sermon had already begun, and Garfield had settled into a pew next to Lucretia's doctor and the doctor's wife, when Guiteau stepped inside. Although he was late, he paused at the door, scanning the congregation for the instantly recognizable figure of the president, who was taller and had broader shoulders than nearly any other man in the church. Quickly locating him, Guiteau noted that he was sitting next to an open window that stood about three feet from the ground. "That," he judged, "would be a good chance to get him." By standing just outside the window, Guiteau thought, he could aim the gun so that the bullet would travel through the back of the president's head and into the ceiling without endangering anyone around him. Although he had his revolver in his pocket and, had he stepped outside the church, a clear shot through the window, Guiteau stayed seated throughout the sermon. It was, Garfield would later write, "a very stupid sermon on a very great subject." Guiteau apparently agreed with the president. At one point, no longer able to restrain his frustration, he shouted out, "What think ye of Christ?" Garfield heard Guiteau's outburst and mentioned it in his diary that night, referring to him as "a dull young man, with a loud voice, trying to pound noise into the question." When the sermon was over, Guiteau had missed his opportunity, but he had not given up on his plan. After watching Garfield step into a carriage and ride away, Guiteau walked to the side of the church to examine the window near which the president had been sitting. Standing in the summer sun, Guiteau could picture the moment when he would raise his gun and take aim. "Next Sunday," he thought, "I would certainly shoot him." Before the next Sunday sermon, however, another opportunity presented itself to Guiteau. On Thursday he read in the newspaper that the president would soon be traveling to New Jersey with his wife. That same night, Garfield mentioned the trip in his diary, writing that, in an attempt to help Lucretia's recovery, "we have concluded to take her to the sea shore for its bracing air." The family, Guiteau knew, would be leaving from the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad Station the following Saturday. A train station, Guiteau thought, might even be better than a church. That Saturday morning he woke up around six, put his gun in his pocket, and walked down to the Potomac to practice his aim one last time. After shooting off another ten cartridges, he made his way to the train station. He arrived before Garfield, and so was able to watch as the president stepped out of the carriage with Lucretia. It was the sight of the first lady, Guiteau would later say, that prevented him from carrying out God's work that day. "I was all ready," he said. "My mind was all made up; I had all my papers with me; I had all the arrangements made to shoot him." When he saw Lucretia, however, he could not go through with it. She looked "so thin," he said, "and she clung so tenderly to the President's arm, that I did not have the heart to fire on him." Garfield walked right past his would-be assassin, his attention focused on Lucretia. After returning to his boardinghouse that day, Guiteau wrote a letter to the American people. He had, he explained, "intended to remove the President this morning at the depot," but after seeing Garfield with Lucretia, he decided it would be best to "take him alone." Although he wanted to spare the first lady the horror of witnessing her husband's fatal shooting, Guiteau argued that, when he did kill the president, his death would not be any more painful to Lucretia because it was the result of assassination. "It will be no worse for Mrs. Garfield, to part with her husband this way, than by natural death," Guiteau reasoned. "He is liable to go at any time any way."   Garfield arrived back in Washington on June 27, in the midst of a heavy storm. He had been reluctant to leave Lucretia, worrying that the "sea air is too strong for her," but he was thrilled by the progress she had made. He also knew that he would see her again soon. In less than a week, while his two youngest boys headed to Ohio for the summer, he would leave for New England with his older sons. The plan was to meet up with Lucretia and Mollie and then go on to Massachusetts, where they would attend his twenty-fifth class reunion at Williams College and help Harry and Jim settle in for the upcoming academic year. Before Garfield could leave, however, he needed to meet with his cabinet. With Conkling out of the way, he had finally been able to establish a strong, if at times contentious, cabinet, which, as he had always intended, included Stalwarts as well as Half-Breeds. The most prominent of the Stalwarts was Robert Todd Lincoln, Garfield's secretary of war and Abraham Lincoln's oldest and only surviving son. On June 30, as the cabinet was about to adjourn for the last time before the president's trip, Garfield suddenly turned to Lincoln with an unusual question. He had heard, he said, that his father had had a prophetic dream shortly before his assassination, and he wondered if Robert would describe it. Although a private and reserved man, Lincoln agreed to tell the story. After he had fallen asleep late one night, Abraham Lincoln had had a dream in which, he later told his wife and an old friend, there was a "death-like stillness about me." Within the stillness, however, he could hear "subdued sobs." Leaving his room, he searched the White House for the source of the weeping, but every room he entered was empty. Finally, stepping into the East Room, he saw a coffin that was guarded by soldiers. "Who is dead in the White House?" he asked. "Why, don't you know?" one of the soldiers replied. "The President has been assassinated." Lincoln had believed deeply in dreams, seeing in them omens that he dared not ignore. After having "an ugly dream" about their son Tad, he had advised his wife to put Tad's pistol away. Another time, while in Richmond, Virginia, he had asked her to return to Washington after he dreamed that the White House was on fire. When questioned about his belief in dreams, Lincoln had often cited the Bible as support. He pointed to Jacob's dream in Genesis 28, as well as several other chapters in the Old and New Testaments. These passages, he said, "reveal God's meaning in dreams." Although Garfield did not share Lincoln's reverence for dreams, he had had a few that seemed strange or powerful enough to record. In late January, little more than a month before his inauguration, he had written down a dream he had had in which Chester Arthur drowned. He and a close friend, General David Swaim, had escaped a sinking ship, only to watch Arthur, who was lying on a couch, very pale and obviously ill, disappear under the surface of the water. "I started to plunge into the water to save Arthur," Garfield wrote, "but Swaim held me, and said he cannot be saved, and you will perish if you attempt it." It was his own death, however, that was often on Garfield's mind. Although he was by nature a cheerful and optimistic man, like Lincoln, he had long felt that he would die an early death. When his friends tried to talk him out of this grim conviction, his only answer was that the thought seemed to him "as foolish as it does to you." Nonetheless, he could not shake it. "I do not know why it haunts me," he said. "Indeed, it is a thing that is wholly involuntary on my part, and when I try the hardest not to think of it it haunts me most." The feeling, he said, came to him most often at night, "when all is quiet." It was then that his mind would turn to his father, who died "in the strength of his manhood," when his wife and children needed him most. At those times, Garfield said, "I feel it so strong upon me that the vision is in the form of a warning that I cannot treat lightly." The night after his cabinet meeting, July 1, Garfield had dinner with Captain Charles E. Henry, the marshal of the District of Columbia, and invited his guest to join him in the library afterward. As the conversation drifted, Henry would later recall, Garfield began to talk about the times in his life, particularly his boyhood, when he had miraculously escaped death. Just days before, he had received word that his uncle Thomas Garfield had been killed when his carriage was struck by a train, and the tragedy had brought back not just memories of his own near-drowning years before on the canal, but the deaths of his father and children, and Lucretia's recent, nearly fatal illness. As Henry sat in the candle-lit library, listening to Garfield, he realized that he "had never heard him speak . . . in the way he did that night." Garfield was, Henry said, "undoubtedly dwell­ing upon the uncertainty of life." After Henry left, Garfield, wishing to talk to Blaine, decided to walk to the secretary of state's house, just a few blocks away. As the president stepped out of the White House, Charles Guiteau, sitting on a park bench across the street in Lafayette Park, looked up. When he saw Garfield, he stood and began to follow him, staying on the opposite side of the street. He had been sitting in the same park two nights earlier and had watched as Garfield left the White House by carriage. After half an hour had passed and the president had not returned, Guiteau had decided to "let the matter drop for the night." Now, as he shadowed Garfield, he removed the loaded revolver from his pocket, carrying it stiffly at his side. When Garfield reached Blaine's house, Guiteau stepped back into the shadows of a hotel alley. Happening to glance out a window, Harriet Blaine caught sight of the president and ran to open the door. As he waited for Blaine, Garfield gave Harriet a present--a bound and signed copy of his inaugural address--and talked to her about the trip he would be making the following day. When Blaine finally appeared, he and Garfield stepped out together for a walk. From the alley, Guiteau, who had passed the time examining his gun and wiping it down, watched as the two men walked down the street arm in arm, their heads close together as they spoke. Garfield's camaraderie with his secretary of state enraged Guiteau, proving, he said, that "Mr. Garfield had sold himself body and soul to Blaine." Guiteau followed Blaine and Garfield all the way to the White House, his gun at his side. He could have easily killed either man at any moment, but he never raised the revolver. After watching the president disappear inside the White House, he walked back to his boardinghouse through the dark streets of Washington. The image of Garfield and Blaine "engaged in the most earnest conversation" haunted him, and the hesitancy he had shown for weeks hardened into resolve. He would not let another opportunity to kill the president pass without taking it. "My mind," he would later say, "was perfectly clear." From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President by Candice Millard All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.