Killing President Garfield: How a Schizophrenic Changed American History

By Bill Schroeder

How a Schizophrenic Changed American History

Factual information you never heard before,
presented in an exciting narrative form with illustrations.

(Disappointed office-seeker, indeed!)

To schizophrenic Charles Guiteau his Divine Inspiration to “remove” President Garfield was real to him even as he dangled from a rope. Garfield’s agony is chronicled elsewhere. This focus is on the delusional world of his shooter. Some actions are fictionalized to dramatize the actual story. It took Guiteau five tries to shoot Garfield and there were at least seven attempts on his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Schroeder
• Release date: Dec 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781604145090

Bill Schroeder

Bill Schroeder:... Was the kind of geek kid in your sixth grade class who wrote the science page in the school newspaper.... Could see the Empire State Building from his bedroom window on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, and went to New York City every chance he could. Usually, it was to the many museums on weekends.... Never missed a football or a basketball game ... never went to one and never missed it.... Loved black and white television in its infancy. He was both envied and ridiculed in high school when he appeared with a friend on the John Reed King Show with their pet ducks in 1950. But no one else did anything similar at the time.... Became an office boy in New York just because it put him a half a block from the New York Public Library. He spent all his lunch hours there reading and doing his homework from Rutgers University Evening Classes.... Built a genuine log cabin without power tools on weekends in the woods of central New Jersey with two friends, using a book he borrowed from in the NY Public Library.... Lost his student exemption from the Korean Draft after dropping a college course. The Army taught him to type and take shorthand for a job in the CID. They shipped his ass to a remote base in North Korea to write reports for men who could not write declarative sentences.... Returned to Rutgers full time on the GI Bill to major in English and Creative Writing. He appeared on the Rutgers educational TV channel, representing the student body.... Became an advertising copywriter, public relations hack, and executive speech writer for a major Defense Contractor.... He married Pat Christopher, a woman of genius intelligence, who won college scholarships in music, art, and English. Their union resulted in six gifted and talented children.... Assumed the role of what The Wall Street Journal calls a “Corporate Gypsy.” He worked as Public Relations Director for several Blue Chip Companies until contracting a near-fatal illness, forcing his ultimate return to the company where he started out.... Had a change of life goals and sought new areas of expression. He was offered the position of Producer-Director of The Maryland Renaissance Festival’s Shakespeare Program. However, he also needed to have a second talent: he chose Tarot Card Reading. First he was billed The Mad Monk, later he became Prince Ali-Ba-Boon (Knows nothing tells much!)... Pursued “life upon the wicked stage” as a hobby for the next few years in local theater groups. He played a variety of roles: Lt. Brannigan (Guys and Dolls), Mayor Shinn (The Music Man); Merlin (Camelot); The Prime Minister (The King and I); the Arab Sheik (Don’t Drink the Water); and The Chinese Detective (The Butler Did It!).... Took early retirement from the Defense contractor to go into the retail business. Harking back to his childhood love, in Washington DC’s Restored Union Station he recreated a small museum named Schrader Scientific” where he sold the things The Smithsonian displayed (Dinosaur bones, Fossils, Gems, Taxidermy, Anthropological Artifacts). At the same time he opened playing card stores both in DC and Baltimore.... Found that as much fun as it was, retail stores were not profitable. So, he moved on to running a “Welfare to Work” program in Maryland for three years. He was asked to leave after his unsuccessful unionizing attempt.... Took this opportunity to pursue his most deep-seated desire to write books. The first was “John Frum, he come” which was about an American missionary and a young Solomons Islands shaman during World War II. It centered on Cargo Cult beliefs and the huge Navy ships full of unimaginable wealth.... Wrote his second book about a secret propaganda program put together by President Roosevelt and Nelson Rockefeller. Just when the plan was ready to go into action, FDR died of a stroke, Mussolini was strung up on a lamppost, and Hitler offed himself in a Berlin bunker. The war was over in Europe and there was no reason to complete the plan to flood Central and South America with decks of propaganda playing cards. He wrote “In Der Fuehrer’s Face” to accompany a limited private printing of the lost deck with the cooperation of the Library of Congress. He made a public presentation of the book at one of the LOC’s Meet-the-Author book signings.... Had been collecting everything he could find abut the assassination of President Garfield in 1881, when Kennedy took the spotlight in Dallas. He continued gathering details for decades on Charles Guiteau, the man who shot Garfield, and recently published “The Innocent Assassin,” explaining why he was not guilty of murder.... Followed up with “Seven Decks You Will Never Play Poker With.” As a Cartomancy (Playing Card) Historian he wrote a number of magazine articles about decks of cards that qualified as rare historic anomalies. He re-edited them into a book of interest to card players (and non-card players) alike for the Random House Book Fair in 2009.... Most recently turned his attention toward developing the Genuine American Flag Movement after discovering that China has sold us $69 Million dollars worth of inaccurate copies of Old Glory. Their influence is so pernicious as to make it more likely than not you will see flags on TV and in public that no longer follow the design of the Eisenhower Flag that became legal on August 21, 1959. He has established a detailed, informative website www.genuineamericanflag.com explaining how to get a flag made in the USA by American workers.

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PROLOGUE

John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald are this country’s favorite assassins to the degree that they even have their own websites. At the same time, Charles Julius Guiteau’s name is hardly recognized by anyone but presidential history buffs.

Few people are aware of how interesting and complex the case was against him for shooting James Abram Garfield, our 20th President. The popular account of the event makes it look like a spur-of-the-moment event ending in a well-deserved hanging. He was labeled The Assassin Guiteau, and the newspapers enjoyed a festival of yellow journalism.

Recently, several well-written books have chronicled the agony President Garfield endured at the hands of doctors for 79 days before he died. However, before The Innocent Assassin, there has not been a book describing the schizophrenic world of Charles Guiteau. It covers his five unsuccessful attempts before July 2, 1881 and the six attempts on his life while he was in the DC Jail.

The manner in which he took over the spectacle of his own execution is without precedent. His insanity is still debated among those who question his Divine Inspiration. The main pivot of his innocence is the fact that the President’s autopsy proved he did not die of Guiteau’s bullet wound.

I chose to write a novel instead of a history book to allow me a more descriptive technique of telling the real story.

In December 1961, I went to a book auction and bought the basement of Pippins Old Book Store on Eutaw Street in Baltimore, Maryland. I bought many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore (about 10,000) for an unchallenged bid of $5.00. No one else wanted them.

Pat, my lovely wife of one year, thought I went Christmas shopping and got all excited when I began to unload vast quantities of cartons into the basement through the back yard. Forty-four years later, we have still not heard the end to that misunderstanding. Many of the boxes are still in the basement waiting to be sorted.

But out of all these books, one of them almost literally jumped out at me. An accidentally knocked-over bookshelf spilled about a hundred books at my feet. The first one I picked up and looked through was titled Two Hard Cases, by W.W. Godding, the Superintendent of St. Elizabeth’s insane asylum. One of his hard cases was Charles Julius Guiteau, the convicted assassin of our 20th President, James Abram Garfield.

Godding’s account of the case and the trial was a grabber. Who would have thought trying to find out more about Guiteau would wind up becoming a 40-year obsession.

A prolonged period of unemployment drove me to hide often in the National Archives. Armed with a tape recorder, six weeks of reading filled more than 50 cassettes with information about the United States vs. Charles Julius Guiteau.

Almost out of the blue, a Xerox copy turned up of the diary the Reverend William W. Hicks kept during his three weeks as the Death Row Spiritual Advisor to Guiteau. It was a whole new point of view contrasting with contemporary newspaper reports of the time.

Work on the book ceased for long periods of time, but something would always draw me back into it. I consciously put the whole project aside for four years, and wrote two other books on completely different subjects – an American missionary in the Solomon Islands; and a discussion of World War II American propaganda. (John Frum, he came! and In der Fuehrer’s Face.) The break was just what was needed. I came back to The Removal Project In 2005 with the whole thing completely structured in my mind.

There are so many twists and turns in the story that it became clear early in my researching that a straight historical recounting of the events would not hold together. For example, there are no other popular accounts of the numerous attempts to kill Guiteau before he reached the gallows. In addition, the humiliation and brutality Garfield experienced during the 79 days between the shooting and merciful death could not be glossed over. I stuck as close to the recorded facts and dates as possible, but had to project many probable personal transactions and conversations.

Those who are not happy with the reporting of the minutia of the case are reminded that this book is a novel, not a history text. In the Appendix, I have identified many people, places and events that were real, and deserved to be recognized as such.

My ultimate decision as a writer was that I no longer cared if it was too long to be sold to a major publisher. Through the miracle of eBook publishing, the book is now available to anyone who has enough intellectual curiosity to follow the whole story to its unbelievable conclusion.

I hope you enjoy reading it. Your responses and comments are invited.

— Bill Schroeder, October 12, 2011

Part 1: New York

Boston: June 8, 1880

After four long years of playing a frightened young virgin or a young woman with remarkable worldly skills — as the customer required — Eileen O’Rourke gave herself a well-deserved present. For her 18th birthday, she bought herself a ticket from Boston to New York on the Steamship Stonington. It was only a deck ticket, to be sure, but it was the beginning of a new life.

As she stood on the deck in the late afternoon sunshine she struck up a conversation with an older woman, who looked tired but friendly. Have ya been to New York before, ma’am? she asked in her Boston Irish brogue.

Heavens yes, dear. I live there. I’ve just been here for a couple weeks to visit my son. He’s here selling telephones.

Telephones, ya say?

Modern miracles. He even says someday he’ll be able to talk to me in New York from here in Boston like he was in the next room, the older woman said.

No disrespect, ma’am, but I find that a little hard to believe, Eileen smiled.

The woman caught her infectious smile and admitted, Well, frankly, so do I. But Howard seemed so sure, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. They both laughed. An’ how about yerself? What’s a pretty young thing like you going to do in New York City?

Eileen hugged her small cardboard suitcase and said, My cousin, Mary Deagan, did it. So I said to myself if she can leave her shabby life in Boston to become ‘a rich lady's maid’ in New York, so can I. I certainly never expect to be rich on my own, if I can work as a maid in one of them big mansions, at least I can be surrounded by nice things. I saved up $35 just so I could go.

Thirty-five dollars! The woman exclaimed, then covered her mouth and looked around to see if anyone had heard her. I’m sorry,’ she said. Don’t you tell another soul that you have so much money. They’ll rob you and toss you overboard. Hide it in your underwear. If one of those mashers that ride the steamboats suspected, he’d relieve you of ever last penny before you knew it."

Eileen thought the woman sounded like she knew from experience. Well, thank ya. I’ll be really careful and stick around people like yerself during the trip. She smiled once more and moved to a spot where she could get a better view of the final preparations to cast off the lines. She had not told the woman about her fantasy. She had heard stories (or had perhaps made them up) of the sons of wealthy families falling in love with the downstairs maid and marrying her in spite of the family's wishes.

So, here she stood on the deck of the S.S. Stonington with her few possessions. It was the first week in June of 1880. She felt a strange mixture of fear and excitement, and was preciously close to going back down the gangway to the pier and to the streets of Cambridge. But at her core, an inner voice told her that this steamship voyage would put her within touching distance of her dreams. She had certainly come too far to panic now.

As she looked at the outline of the city of Boston, her thoughts wandered to how she had reached this point. There was nothing unusual about having a father who drank a lot and worked very little. It described the families of most of kids that Eileen played with in her neighborhood. Her father, Tim O’Rourke, had a reputation in Ireland as a good-for-nothing and his net worth declined when he moved to Boston with all the other potato-famine refugees in the 1840s.

After the first three children, Eileen’s mother, Fiona, landed a job in one of the many Boston shoe factories to support the brood. Eileen grew up seeing her mother almost always at night after brutalizing 12 and 14-hour work days. She saw her father more often than she wished, and learned early not to cower in the face of his verbal onslaughts. She also relied on her ability to dodge blows the slow-moving sot could deliver.

When his wife got paid or he grabbed a couple bucks. O’Rourke’s behavior was always the same. He would come home drunk and slap his wife and kids around. Like her older brother and sister, Eileen took it for many years until a fateful day shortly after she turned 14. While Tim was beating on his wife, Eileen took the wash-stick her mother used to stir the laundry with and let him have it across the back of the head. She left before he regained consciousness, and was gone forever.

That night she walked to Cambridge where she knew her cousin, Mary Deagan, would take her in. The girls had grown up on the same street, but Mary was three years older than her. For the past two years, she had been living in a furnished room near Harvard where she entertained students.

Eileen knew where the place was. On one of her few visits back to the old neighborhood six weeks before, Mary drew her a map. So, when there was a rap at the door at one in the morning, Mary was not surprised to see her cousin. In fact, she was just letting out one of her regular visitors when Eileen showed up.

Well, now. Who’s this? he said, as they passed each other in the hallway. She looks like she could give you some competition, Mary. I’d be careful to keep her hidden.

You’ll never put your dirty hands on her. Get on back to your room before they miss you, Mary said sharply, almost shoving him out the door, and closing it quickly.

The two young women embraced and squealed with delight at seeing each other. Did ya do it, darlin’? Mary asked.

He’ll have a worse hangover in the morning than he’s ever had before — and he’ll probably never figure out what happened to him. Her smile turned to a serious expression, and said, I wish I could have said good-by to Ma, though. I just grabbed my pillow-case full of stuff and ran out the door.

Fiona only would have tried to talk you out of comin’ here anyway, Mary said. She doesn’t understand what it means to be free of the likes of your old man.

The two girls talked about a hundred things before the sun came up. One of them was how she would be introduced to the business. Cambridge was full of horny young men who attended Harvard, and often pretended not to be interested in pleasures of the flesh. In many cases, they could not even be honest with themselves due to family and church prohibitions. It was accepted that a gentleman simply waited for marriage before giving in to his ‘appetites.’ But as one became an upper-classman the pressures became overwhelming, and the fraternities often provided introductions to their favorite Irish wenches. Even then, some of the more private-natured students would not even discuss the subject of sex with their fellows. Mary found most of her clients among these terribly frightened souls, and offered compassion and understanding along with her warm bed. She had no desire to become a fraternity pet, regardless of the monetary value such a position offered.

Don’t ya think I’m a little young to be dealing with some of these fellows? Eileen asked. Suppose they ask me how old I am? What should I say?

I useta worry about that, too. I was only 15 when I came here myself, ya know, Mary said. But I found out that most of them want the girl to be younger than they are, so they can pretend to be experienced.

I’ve only done it two or three times with Mickey Fagin, Eileen admitted. I don’t know how experienced that makes me.

Believe me, Darlin’, ya learn quick. I swear they’re more worried about things than you are, Mary laughed. "Let me tell ya a story about one of my early customers.

"He was a student, naturally, and very nervous, as I remember, when I struck up a conversation with him in a park near the school. His intentions and desires were clear, but he hadn't the foggiest idea how to do anything about them. I invited him for a cup of tea, and when we got to my place, the whole thing must have taken all of three minutes.

I looked at him and said, ‘I’ll bet you aren't a day older than I am.’ To which he says something he must have practiced in front of a mirror. He says, ‘I have attained the age of majority!’

So I frowns and says, What the hell does that mean? Is there more than one of you?"

"He breaks out laughing and says, ‘No, silly. It's a British expression. When you reach the age of majority, it means you're no longer a kid. You're legally an adult when you reach 21.’

Mary looked wistful remembering the scene. He was my first love. I thought I would meet my Harvard student every week and make love with him. Eventually, I thought he’d marry me and I’d become a rich lady. But, as hard as I looked for him in the parks and on the streets of Cambridge I never saw him again. Ever since then when anybody asks my age I say coyly, ‘I have attained the age of majority.’

And you never saw him again? Eileen said.

Darlin’, you have to realize that there is nothin’ personal in this business. You don’t see most of them again ... ever. Don’t make the mistake that there is anything but the moment with any of them. None of them are ever going to marry you. They marry nice girls from their own class — not us.

Eileen Meets Charley Guiteau

As Eileen watched the workmen loading the concession stand in the main saloon, she noticed a short but attractive man carrying two buckets of ice to the bar. Then, instead of going back down the loading ramp with the other men he mixed with the crowd, and sat down. She knew a freeloader when she saw one — she was raised with them. This fellow was sneaking on board without buying a ticket, and she was impressed with his technique.

Once the big side paddles pulled the ship free, he got up and began walking around the passenger deck like anyone else. Eileen took him for somebody who was down on his luck and was just waiting for the big break. He wore a rumpled, dark suit and a shirt that hadn’t been white for at least three days. The expression on his face seemed to say that everything would change for the better once he got to New York.

While the man thought he had cleverly spotted a lone, young woman who would be receptive to his charms, Eileen had actually positioned herself at the rail where eye contact would be inevitable. "This is exactly what I need to keep me company during the trip," he said to himself. "Perhaps she even has a cabin of her own. Above anything else, she is certainly the prettiest girl on the boat." Little did he realize that she had already decided that he looked relatively harmless compared to the general population.

She smiled at him, and he glided into the space next to her looking over the railing as they backed away from the pier. He handed her his card and said, How do you do. I’m Charles Guiteau — lawyer and theologian.

Eileen said, That’s nice, Mr. Guiteau ... What’s a theo-whatcha-ma-call-it?

My friends call me Charley. I am a student of religion. I give lectures on the subject — especially on the Second Coming of Christ.

Oh, Eileen said, you’re a preacher. Well, I’m Catholic so I’m not interested in that sort of thing.

All the more reason you should be interested in ‘that sort of thing’, Charley countered. He went on with a recitation of what he believed to be an effective argument against Catholicism. He’s some kind of preacher all right, she thought to herself. That’s a hell of a pick-up line, but he might be what I need to keep the other wolves on board in their places. I don’t think he’ll be bothering me much.

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To say that they talked for the rest of the afternoon would be somewhat inaccurate. He talked and she listened. She bought them both sandwiches at the food stand when he pretended not to be hungry. As they sat on one of the wooden benches on the hurricane deck, he started getting more brazen in his movements. When it got dark, a chill set in and he draped his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of keeping her warm.

Do you have a stateroom? he asked in a suggestive tone, and Eileen laughed out loud.

I’m no better off than you are, Charley. I don’t have a berth, much less a cabin where I can spend the night. All I have is a deck ticket, so I’ll have to sit up all night.

His hand rested casually on her knee getting bolder. When he gave her thigh a gentle squeeze, she remembered the older woman’s remark about mashers. She said, Now, don't start that. All I want to do is get some sleep before we get to New York.

I am just being friendly, he said. It's going to be a long night, so we need to find something to amuse us.

Well, since neither of us has the price of a room, forget that. Besides, I thought you said you was a preacher? and pushed his hand back down to her knee.

No, he said, I told you I was a theologian. There's a difference. I give lectures on topics in religion, but I do not have a church of my own. Other than that I am a man like all men.

I'll say, she said. "My cousin Mary used to say, ‘Eileen, men are just perpetual notion machines.’ You're all alike ... Theo-whatcha-ma-call-its or not."

I'm sure you have been down this path many times before, he said, and tried to kiss her on the neck.

I have not, she said, and pulled away from him, all the while thinking, I’ve turned my last trick, and I certainly ain’t gonna change my plans for a guy who hasn’t got the price of a ten-cent sandwich.

So why have you been acting so friendly to me all day, Charley persisted.

I figured someone would be propositioning me during the trip. And, since you said you were a man of the cloth, I was hoping you would protect me from the riffraff on the boat. Boy, was I wrong. It turns out you ain't much better.

On the contrary, he said indignantly, "I am not only a theologian, but a lawyer as well. I am entering politics when reach New York," he said, expecting her to be impressed.

She really didn’t care what he was saying, all she wanted now was to find someplace out of the dampness of the foggy night where she could sleep until morning.

Charley Guiteau was not one to be ignored. As she walked down a stairwell to the main deck, he kept up his steady patter. I plan to drop in on General Grant at the Fifth Avenue Hotel tomorrow, when I get ashore. I am a Stalwart, and will support him for a third term. When he gets the nomination for President, I will work tirelessly for his election.

Accustomed to being straightforward when the situation called for it, Eileen said, Have you looked into a mirror lately, Charley? Them swells won't let you in the front door. You don't look like no big shot politician like I ever seen in Boston. Then, for good measure added, Unless the poor people have taken over New York, you ain’t got a chance.

Getting hot under the collar, he said, I think brains count for something. I'm as smart as any of them. I spent three days in the Boston State Library writing a speech in support of Ulysses S. Grant for President.

She laughed, Get off your high horse.

The speech I wrote will make him President, he said while unbuttoning his shirt front. He reached in, took out an oilcloth pouch full of papers, and unwrapped them. Handing her this bunch of pencil-written notes, he said, Read that, and see if you don’t agree.

She took the papers gingerly in her hands and said, It’s very impressive, Charley, but I can't read ... I never learned how. But seeing the disappointed look on his face, she said, However, I'll take your word for the fact that it's a wonderful speech.

They stopped talking when they reached the lower deck. There was no moon and it was getting very foggy. It was time to get inside the big living room known as the ship's saloon.

The deckhands had been painting everything in sight all day. Someday I'll have a fine house with windows like these, Eileen said. Look at them beveled edges, and oak sills.

That's oiled walnut, Charley corrected All the wood that isn't painted, is oiled. In fact, you complained about the paint. I think the place reeks of oil polish. I heard one of the officers boasting that this was the ship's first time out since they re-did her ‘from stem to stern’.

Charley slid the doors open to the saloon, and Eileen was overwhelmed. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful, she said. A few years ago I peeked into the lobby of a really expensive hotel one night. It looks like that. Even the chandelier is lit by gas.

Those who only had deck tickets staked out plush couches, wooden benches, and deck chairs where they could doze until the next morning when they would arrive in New York. Already most of the soft chairs and velveteen couches were taken. Men, women and children were huddled and draped over the furniture like steerage passengers on a European liner. But Charley spied one little boy sleeping on a couch way toward the back of the room. His mother was sleeping in a chair, and was unaware that her child was being lifted down to the deck. Eileen put his little jacket back under his head for a pillow.

Kids can sleep anywhere, Charley said, and invited her to sit down next to him on the couch.

We’ll sit together, Eileen said, but don’t get too cozy this time. She leaned to the corner of the couch opposite from his. In a few minutes, all she heard was the swish of the waves, and the drone of the engine. When the lights were turned down, quiet conversations gave way to the gentle snores of sleeping passengers.

The Stonington meets the Narragansett

Charley drifted off quite nicely, and he saw General Ulysses S. Grant waiting for him on the pier in New York. Eileen was in her Fifth Avenue mansion, attired in a clean crisp maid’s uniform when the steel bow of the S.S. Narragansett sliced into the port side of the Stonington’s wooden hull no more than ten feet in front of the wheel house, narrowly missing the paddle-wheel.

The sudden jolt tumbled the sleepers to the deck, and before they realized anything happened they were jarred fully awake by the cry of the ship's piercing whistle. In a matter of minutes, everyone was sitting upright in dazed surprise.

Eileen’s eyes were accustomed to the subdued light, and she thought she must still be dreaming. She saw the white hull of the Narragansett cutting into the deck of her ship like a hot iron melting its way into a block of paraffin. The deck cabins in its way just disappeared.

There was an unimaginable screeching, groaning and creaking. The Stonington shuddered. Everything gave the illusion of being in a state of suspended animation. There were no human voices for a full 10 seconds — then the air was torn with wails and shouts of every description.

The first screams came from the people who had been in the deck cabins and the staterooms at the point of impact. The outer walls of the cabins splintered and flew in slow motion. The gaslights went out as though snuffed by an invisible breath. The saloon was black. No kerosene lights had been lit, when the illuminating gaslights were lowered. Now the gaslights flickered out totally.

All 300 passengers seemed to awaken at the same time. The air was filled with the whines and cries of frightened people in a strange, dark place. Men, women and children partly-dressed or in nightclothes streamed into the saloon from the corridors leading to the interior staterooms. The barman lit a kerosene lantern, and the room was alive with the elongated, flickering shadows cast by the small yellow flame. Scores of people were talking at once, demanding to know what happened. Others contented themselves with simply screeching and wailing because it was how they met any emergency.

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Charley was paralyzed with fear. His body refused to do anything but sit there while he looked at the half-clad people filling the room. Some raced back and forth wringing their hands. Others, like him, were unable to move. One large man standing near him made unintelligible sounds, and whined like a puppy. Finally, he passed out and fell to the deck with his hands over his ears.

Fortunately, in Eileen’s family the women were always relied upon to take charge when things got serious. She grabbed Charley by the lapels and shook him. To be heard over the din, she yelled into his ear, We better get out of here real fast, Charley. I think we're gonna sink.

Charley did not say a word, but stood up when she pulled on him. Just as he got to his feet, a powerful whoosh of steam came up from the stairwells leading below decks. Huge volumes of steam poured into the saloon, triggering an even louder wave of screaming and carrying on.

Looking like he stepped off the stage of the New York production of "H.M.S. Pinafore, the ship’s Captain, Warren S. Young appeared in full uniform. Fighting his way into the saloon, he shouted vainly for silence. No one paid any attention to him, so he climbed onto one of the tables. I’m Captain Young. Everyone be quiet! Everyone be quiet!" His voice was high-pitched with fear.

There's no need to worry! he yelled in an effort to convince himself more than the passengers. We're not going to sink. There's a ship alongside right now to take passengers off if necessary. You don't even need to put on your life preservers. He threw open his jacket and said, See, even I'm not wearing one, and I'm in a position to know what's going on.

At that moment, the Narragansett engaged full reverse engines, and pulled out of the deep cleft the bow had made in the side of the Narragansett. The jolt knocked Captain Young's platform from under him and he crashed heavily to the deck. Frantic people climbed over him trying to reach the life preservers stored in ceiling compartments.

The lurch of the disengagement also caused the firebox of the steam boiler to spew burning coals all over the engine room. The reason the gaslights had gone out at the time of the impact was that the Narragansett bow had crushed the illuminating gas generator. Now, the gas was released from the compressed storage tank, gushing out into the surrounding area. When it came in contact with a live coal, the resultant explosion sent a shock wave through the ship. The marvelous etched-glass plate windows Eileen had admired a few hours ago became thousands of diamonds sparkling in the glow of the burning foredecks.

The excess of polish on the walnut panels and woodwork glowed blue. Flames licked along the well-oiled path they provided. The burning of tacky, newly painted bulkheads provided light for the panicked crowds to scramble for their lives. A fleeting thought coursed through Eileen’s head — My God, maybe we’re already dead and gone to hell.

The whole scene became a cacophony of hissing steam mixed with the cries of ship's officers and men giving orders and calling for aid. The words, Collision! We're sinking! echoed through the ship.

Eileen battled her way out of the saloon, leading Charley by the lapel onto the outer deck. She was just in time to see the Narragansett putting distance between itself and the rapidly expanding disaster. There was a large portion of her bow stove in, and ten feet of her bowsprit was still imbedded in the Stonington. Although, her front end was pushed in, she did not appear to be sinking.

Reaching above their heads, passengers pulled down on the thin wooden lath strips that secured individual life preservers. As the strips broke, the life jackets cascaded down on their heads, and everyone to try to grab for one for himself. Charley remained inert, but survival instincts flooded Eileen’s mind. She yanked one out of the hands of frantic man with tears running down his cheeks. He kept saying, My mother will never understand if I get killed. My mother will never understand...

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Without really knowing how she did it, Eileen successfully put her jacket on as though she did this every day. When she turned her attention to Charley, he was standing glassy-eyed, clutching a lifejacket to his chest. He was petrified. Put it on, Charley! she yelled. Put the life preserver on!

When he did not respond, she punched him in the ribs to get his attention. That snapped him out of his stupor and he slipped his arms through the holes. Eileen tied the strings on the front of it just in time. They were both terrified at the thought of throwing themselves into the ocean.

When the Narragansett withdrew, its anchor chain snagged the guard railing on the Stonington’s port side, leaving no barrier between the scurrying passengers and the black waters. The decision of what to do was made for them. Another steam explosion blew a large number of the people into the abyss, Eileen and Charley among them.

When Eileen came to her senses she made the sign of the cross and began looking for Charley. Mother of God be with me, she called out, trying to find him bobbing around in the inky water. He surfaced and coughed loudly. They clutched each other in the cold darkness, and together they watched the Stonington burn almost to the water line before it slipped beneath the surface amid much roaring, hissing and sputtering.

The water was full of terrified people. Sometimes they disappeared beneath the surface without returning. Cries and shrieks could be heard all around them in the night.

Struggling survivors looked for floating pieces of wood and furniture from the ship. The luckiest ones found something that floated to hang on to since the life vests barely kept their heads above the water. Charley and Eileen were holding desperately to a mattresses from one the cabins. It was getting so waterlogged that it barely floated, but it was something to help them keep the salt water out of their mouths.

The chill of the water helped clear Charley's mind, and he finally became aware of the seriousness of their situation. Are you all right, Charley? Eileen yelled, her teeth chattering with the cold.

Still unsure of how he got there, it took him a minute to answer. It's so cold, I can't feel my feet. I think I lost my shoes, he said.

If you can’t feel your feet, what’s the difference? she retorted in an attempt at humor. Be glad you can still breathe, and don’t lose yer grip on the bed. Maybe one of the lifeboats’ll find us. I see some lights on that boat that hit us. Maybe they'll take us aboard that one.

But his answer wasn’t very cheery. Suppose that one sinks, too? Charley said. And, who even knows that we're out here?

Maybe someone on the shore will see the flames, and send a boat out to find out what's going on, Eileen hoped out loud. If yer any kind of preacher, for God’s sake start prayin’!

His response was loud for everyone near them to hear. Lord, God of Abraham, he yelled, Almighty Father who did deliver Jonah from the jaws of the behemoth, hear my prayer. Help me to survive this night of darkness and fear. As you parted the seas for the children of Israel, calm these waters and send us help that I may continue to do your bidding and serve you faithfully. Amen.

Not to be outdone, Eileen joined in by reciting: Hail, Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou among women... After the third Hail Mary she called out, Blessed Mother, intervene for us and show the life boats where we are. We ask in the name of your only Son, Jesus Christ, that we be saved from drowning. I'll never miss another mass, or commit another sin as long as I live if you will only grant this prayer.

To underscore his desperation, he called to her. She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to God, but said loudly, Ordinarily, I do not approve of such Papist idolatry, but under the circumstances we need all the help we can get from any source.

Eileen answered, Let’s say the ‘Our Father’ together three times in succession as fast as we can. I hear other people out there doin’ the same. Naturally, he said the Protestant version and she the Catholic, so they got out of sync on the first recital. She waited for him to finish before starting again.

Out of breath, they fell into a silence mostly because of how cold they were. I think we better keep talking, Charley. It might be best. — What do you plan to do if we ever get back to shore, Charley?

My faith is in the Lord, he said. He has great things for me to do in the world. I will go straight away to the Fifth Avenue Hotel and present them with my speech for General Grant.

Wringin’ wet and without any shoes? She said, again trying to make a joke.

But he was perfectly earnest, and assured her, the Lord would provide. Eileen thought he might ask her what she would do, but he was too busy talking about his own plans. When there was a break in his pronouncements she told him, I’m going to New York to become a rich lady’s maid, like my cousin Mary.

Eileen was sure that confessing her sins and begging for help from the Virgin would help them, so she told him, I led a life of sin back in Boston, ya know, Charley. I saved enough money to buy a ticket to New York. I’m gonna find Mary, and get a job like hers working in a big house somewhere. I’m promising the Virgin right here and now that I will never fall back into that life if she will just save me and give me a chance to become a rich lady’s maid.

Charley remained quiet for a few minutes, then said, I thought you had a scarlet past, when I first saw you on the boat.

The City of New York

While no one on the Connecticut shore saw the flames from the sinking ship, as luck would have it there was another steamer near at hand. It was the City of New York. The Captain sighted the burning ship in spite of the fog, and came to their rescue.

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Just before dawn, the mattress was mostly submerged, and Eileen was on the verge of losing her grip, somebody grabbed her by the hair and pulled her into a lifeboat. They dragged Charley in a few minutes later. That’s it, the seaman in charge said, We haven't got room for any more. Head back for the ship and we'll get these folks onto the deck.

Eileen passed out, and the next thing she knew some women were drying her off with towels, and wrapped her in a woolen blanket. Someone handed her some hot coffee and helped her sit close to a little coal stove.

Where am I? she asked.

"This is the City of New York," one of the crewmen answered.

Being half delirious Eileen said, Oh, I felt like I was still on board a boat, and passed out again.

The next time she saw Charley he was back among the living, wearing a union-suit, long-sleeved winter underwear that one of the crew gave him. It was sweaty-smelling but dry. He had wrapped a blanket tightly around his head and shoulders, while he hugged a steam pipe trying to get warm. Eileen was glad to see that he made it.

A New Start

The Narragansett, the other ship in the collision, docked in Connecticut before daybreak and sent a telegram to New York reporting the catastrophe. As a result, the next day the Providence and Stonington Steamship Line was ready for The City of New York’s arrival at the Jay Street Pier a little after noon.

All the executives of the P&S Line were at the pier, looking very worried. They had ambulances and carriages surrounding the docking area to take away those who were hurt badly. To help the other passengers, The Sisters of Mercy were at the pier with hot soup and coffee. They also had a good supply of used clothing for them to change into. None of it was very fashionable, but being clean and dry, it would do for people who lost everything during the horrible night. Eileen found a dress that must have been elegant at one time, but the Sisters’ laundering left it limp and shapeless.

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The first thing Charley did was try on some shoes. He was still wearing someone else's long underwear and a blanket, and was quite embarrassed. Taking pity on him, one of the Sisters looked him over and gave him a shirt and a pair of pants that almost fit. He found a pair of brogans that were somewhat large, but at least they protected his feet from the cinder-covered ground.

He realized someone was standing next to him, and he looked up. There with hands on hips, and arms akimbo, stood Eileen. There you are, Charley. She said, I've been looking all over for you.

His clothes were not just wet, but had become oil-soaked and useless. Nonetheless, he had saved the package of papers containing his speech from the pile of wet rags. They were soaked, but he clutched the bundle close to him as he passed down the line for soup and coffee.

A man wearing a Captain's uniform, and using a megaphone started calling, "Attention, please! If you were aboard the Stonington, please follow me to the boarding shed." In about 15 minutes, there were about 200 people crammed into the roofed area where people generally stood out of the weather while they waited to board the steamers.

A makeshift stage was set up, and some chairs had been arranged in front of it. A very concerned-looking agent told them, The Providence and Stonington Steamship Line deeply regrets the events of last night. We are happy to report however that there was a relatively small loss of life.

Charley looked at Eileen and said, "How could he possibly know? He wasn’t there. Even if I had bought a ticket, nobody would even know if I was missing. That Captain up there has no idea what happened. I saw people going under left and right. There were certainly a lot more people on the Stonington than there are standing around here."

The company cannot recompense you for all your loses, the P&S man said, but in order to help you through this difficult time, I have been authorized to pay each of you $75 cash to help you get to wherever you are headed. Please line up, and sign the release forms at the ticket windows.

Charley's ears perked up at hearing Seventy-five dollars. I had no idea they would give us anything, Eileen said. I figured the clothes we got form the Sisters of Mercy were about the end of it."

This doesn’t change my plans, Charley said, I’ve spent the morning planning my law suit against the steamship company. Remember, I’m a lawyer. But this is great ... truly a windfall.

In spite of everything, Charley’s day took on a rosy glow. Seventy-five dollars could make him look like a first-class politician at Republican Headquarters. The Lord works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform, he reminded Eileen. All he could think of was how he was going to spend it.

After they signed the papers at the ticket office, the cash was distributed. He counted it again and again. By design, it was all in ones to make it look like a lot more than it was. Eileen teased him. Well Charley, so now you're a rich man, flashin' all that money.

I’ll assume you are equally rich, he said back.

Richer than you are, I said. I had twenty dollars in my stocking that survived the swim.

Oh, I don't remember coming across that, he said with a leer on his face.

You weren't even close, Charley, she laughed.

Reverting to his old behavior, he said. Now that we're both so wealthy, how would you like celebrate by having dinner and by sharing a room with me for the night?

Eileen got mad, and turned stone serious. She made the sign of the cross and said, Last night I promised the Virgin I would give up my former life if I was saved from a watery grave. She kept her part of the bargain. I'll keep mine. I'm going to turn over a new leaf here in New York. I hear rich ladies are paying quite nicely for Boston maids. My cousin is one, and I’m counting on her helping me find a job, too. So, I'll just be off to findin' my cousin and gettin' a job as a rich lady's maid.

Getting equally serious, Charley said, I told you God would provide. He’s answered my prayers even better than I asked for. You told me last night I should look in a mirror, and see if I looked like a big-shot politician. He flourished the $75, fanning it out. I used to live here in New York a few years ago. There’s a clothing store on Third Avenue that I know. — It's owned by an old Jew. He's got the best buys in gentlemen's clothes in town. Then I’m off to the barber for a gentleman's shave and haircut. Tonight I will sleep in the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

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He reached into his shirt, as he did the day before and took out his packet of wet papers. My being here as a Providence of God ... and here's the speech that will win the Presidency for Ulysses S. Grant. Together we will bring glory to the Republican party.

Eileen and Cousin Mary

Armed with $95 in her stocking, and a number of singles in her pocket, Eileen ventured forth from the Jay Street Pier. She spotted a single-horse cab with two wheels, and went to it.

On her last visit to Cambridge, Mary Deagan had given her directions and wrote down the address of where she worked on a piece of paper. She recited the directions to a fatherly looking driver, and asked, Do you now where it is?

I'd be a sad excuse for a cab driver if I didn't, he answered. Then, he looked at her wrinkled, Sisters-of-Mercy-dress, and said, Would you mind showing me your money before we leave?

She understood his feelings and showed him three of her one-dollar bills, and climbed in.

The driver noticed that she was sniffling a little and he brought the carriage to a halt. Did you lose someone on the boat? he asked.

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No, I just don’t think I can hold it in much more, She managed to say. I want to get to m'cousin's house and get some rest. She's a rich lady's maid at that house on Madison Avenue.

Them houses in the Forties are nice, but I didn't think they had much in the way of servants, the driver said knowingly. But if she's a maid, do you think she'd be allowed to have any guests? It ain't like servants own the house, ya' know.

He made clicking noises, and the horse moved forward again. Her fears began to grow and thought, Maybe I should have taken up that funny little preacher, Charley, on spending the night with him until I had a chance to gather my thoughts about my plans.

No, that's all behind me. The Virgin saved me from drownin’ so I could change my life. If I went to bed with him, I would be letting the Virgin down. I have more important things to do with m'life. I feel it in m'bones.

She regained control of herself as she took in her first impressions of New York City. The driver was friendly and talkative. Is this your first time in New York? he said.

Yes, and what I’m seein’ don't look much different from Boston.

He gave her a brief travelogue. "Once you get away from the center of the city, the paving gives way to dirt streets. Polite society tends to stick around the Madison Square district in the Twenties and Thirties. When you go up north to Central Park it's a complete change. Past 59th Street, it’s a wilderness, and small farms are everywhere.

Where do the rich people live? Eileen asked. That's where I want to work.

In the upper Fifties on Fifth Avenue. That's where you'll find the marble mansions of the Vanderbilts and their friends. Do you have any letters of recommendation? You'll need them to get a maid's job with any of the big name families.

No, Eileen answered. No one ever mentioned that.

The driver skillfully guided his hack through side streets, avoiding the traffic problems. They turned right at 41st Street and went over one block to Madison Avenue. It was a pleasant looking neighborhood with streetlights and sidewalks. Her destination, Number 290 Madison Avenue was a beautiful Brownstone. It had a massive staircase, and a porch with huge pillars. It was clearly the most elegant house Eileen had ever seen. She realized she was about to see how the other half lived.

Her face was glowing as she gave the driver his fare. It’s like a dream, she said. I’d be glad to work in a place like that, just for the sake o’ bein’ there.

The driver pursed his lips, and considered his next comment. Miss! he says, I think you better tone your excitement down a little. Things ain't always what they seem.

She got out of the cab saying, I know. Ya warned me that she’s only an employee, and might not be allowed to offer me a place t’sleep. But I just want to see her and let her know I’m here. Then all her fears came to the surface, and she burst into tears. Surely, her employers wouldn’t stop me from saying hello this afternoon. She can help me look for a job tomorrow.

For a moment, the cab driver looked like he was going to say something else, but thought better of it. He touched his battered top hat in a little salute, and left in search of another fare.

Eileen shrugged and paced back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the porch steps. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of the once elegant dress, and sat on the stoop for a full three minutes. As though giving herself obvious advice she said out loud, I guess I better see if Mary still lives here.

She climbed the stairs and composed herself as best she could. She heard the knocker banging against the brass plate echo loudly through the house. When no one opened it immediately, she turned to go. However, before her foot touched the second step a tall, thin, gray-haired woman opened the door. She looked like someone's stern grandmother.

Yes. What is it? she said.

I’m looking for Mary Deagan. I'm her cousin from Boston. Eileen said.

The old woman looked over the girl’s long black hair. It had received a cursory brushing out with the help of the women on the boat but there had been no attempt to do anything else with it. The unironed dress did little to help her appearance either.

What's your name? she said.

Eileen O’Rourke, ma’am.

Stay out there. I'll see if she is available, she said brusquely.

The door closed and Eileen looked toward the street. In a few minutes, the door opened. There stood Mary ... with flaming red hair, and milk-white skin. She was wearing a green silk kimono. Eileen! she said, What in the name of the Saints are you doing in New York? What’s happened? You're lookin’ like something the cat dragged in.

The hugged each other with the deepest love one person can feel for another. Oh Mary, I’m so glad t’see ya, Eileen said, the teardrops again rolling down her cheeks. When Mary swept her inside,

Mary led her to a small sitting room. Pointing to a red velvet couch with mahogany trim she said, Sit down and tell me what on earth has brought you to New York, and in such condition yet.

Eileen poured out the highlights of the ship sinking, then went back to add a few details about Charley, the odd preacher she had met. She told her cousin how she saved him from going down with the Stonington.

After a non-stop stream of words, she finally reached the end of her description. I’ve already told you too much about me, Eileen protested, now you tell me about you.

Mary was hesitant. The two of them had grown up together and felt more like sisters than cousins. I guess you can tell from my clothes that I ain't a maid here ... and this ain’t just some rich lady's house.

Well, that's not entirely true, either... Mary said. "The woman who answered the door owns the place and I think she's richer than any of the men who come here.

Ya mean this is a whorehouse? she said flatly.

Eileen’s bluntness took her by surprise, but she recovered quickly and said, It’s called a `Sporting House' in this part of town. Not only that, it’s the most expensive one in town. Mary was trying to save face, and tried to justify the situation by saying, The girls here make more in a day than we usta make in a week.

Eileen’s heart fell down into her stomach. I wish I had drowned with everybody else on the boat, she sobbed, curling into a fetal position and hugging her knees. She buried her face in her hands and started in crying again.

God is punishing me for being a whore, she wailed. I should’ve known. He meant for me to drown in the ocean, but I made it back to shore. Now I wind up in a lousy whorehouse in New York where the only person I love isn’t a lady’s maid like I dreamed. God’s makin’ the Virgin teach me a lesson.

Mary put her arms around Eileen’s shoulders and they embraced each other and rocked back in forth. No sound could be heard except their keening for each other. At length the emotion ran its course and they both sat on the couch facing each other. Mary said sadly, Darlin’ it may be a hard fact to face, but whorin’s the only way we know how to make a livin’.

Eileen forced a smile onto her swollen red face. Well, look at it this way, she said, accepting the situation as a practical and matter-of-fact, If that’s all ya know, ya might as well work in the best house in town.

After a moment of getting things under control Eileen asked in a half whisper, Who’s the old bat ... the madam?

Her name's Mrs. Russell. During the war, she ran a house in Washington called Mother Russell’s Bake Oven. She made a fortune, and after the war she came to New York to open this place.

It looks like a real live mansion to me, Eileen said in genuine wonder.

"It is. And in all seriousness, it is the best Sportin’ House in New York. She has the best girls, and the highest prices. We don't lay down for nobody but millionaires — and New York's full of them."

Eileen looked into Mary's bright green eyes and didn’t like what she saw. But you're not lookin’ so keen, Mary, she interrupted. You're so pale and sickly lookin’. You've always had the whitest skin I’ve ever seen, but it was a healthy white. You're a shade paler than white.

Mary didn't answer right away. It was her turn to cry. I had an abortion, last week. I think I'm having complications. I haven't stopped bleeding, and I have terrible pains.

Maybe you better be seein’ a doctor, Eileen said.

Mrs. Russell has a doctor who practically lives here. He comes in a couple times a week, to make sure the girls ain’t givin’ the customers anything but a good time. He’s the one who did the abortion, and he says I waited too long to tell him I was gonna have a baby, so it’ll take a longer time to heal.

Mrs. Russell came into the room carrying a tea tray. She poured tea for the three of them, and gave Mary an opium pill to ease her pain. Then she sat down to join in the conversation.

Abortion is a mortal sin, Mary, Eileen said. I hope you’ve gone to confession.

Mrs. Russell smiled wryly, and said, Eileen, sin is the business we’re in. Nobody makes us do it. Underneath it all, we do what we do because we like it. The girls in my houses always have the best of everything. If Mary had settled down with a nice Irish bricklayer in Boston and had five snotty-nosed brats, do you think she would ever wear a silk outfit like she has on?

Then you know about how we used to live together in Cambridge? Eileen said to Mrs. Russell, suspiciously, glancing at a somewhat guilty-looking Mary.

... And how you handled six college students in their rooms in one night. I know everything there is to know about my girls. I’ve heard about you often ... and that you thought dear, sweet Mary here was a maid.

I never expected you to come to New York, Mary said. I gave you the address in case you wanted to send me a letter.

Fat chance of that since I can't read or write, she said. "I really thought you were a maid for a rich family. I’ve dreamed about the day that I could get out of Boston and live — even as a servant — in a house like this."

Maids are drudges, Eileen, Mrs. Russell said contemptuously. Once you get rid of the rag you are wearing, and we give you a bath and a shampoo, you could live right here in this house ... and not as a servant. We have colored women for that.

Eileen digested the remark as she sipped her tea, making a point of sticking out her pinkie, as she believed she should. I heard the story you told Mary about your boat sinking last night. Of course, I’ve heard about the terrible accident from my own sources, as well. I think you should go upstairs to Mary’s room and get some sleep. Have a decent meal with us at dinner, and I’ll tell you how you can get to be the toast of New York City.

Charley at the Fifth Avenue Hotel

The clean-shaven man who stood at the registration desk of the Fifth Avenue Hotel bore little resemblance to the wretched-looking, derelict who boarded the S.S. Stonington only the day before in Boston. He was extremely tired from his ordeal at sea the night before, but adrenaline sustained him up to this point, and would continue to do so for a while longer. He wore a dark suit; not unlike the one he had on 24 hours ago, but of finer more fashionable cut with recently pressed trousers. His shirt was freshly laundered, starched and ironed. He wore a new slouch cap, set at a slightly jaunty angle. As he signed in, he set a portmanteau at his feet. It was full of more pieces clean linen than he had owned in a long time, along with another shirt. Charles Guiteau was pleased with the fact that he had purchased the entire outfit at the used clothing shop for a total of six dollars.

He had found a barbershop near the steamer wharf and treated himself to a deluxe hot bath for fifty cents at the rear of the shop. He soaked until the warmth of the water reached to the very marrow of his bones. He got the traditional shave and a haircut — two bits, and left smelling of Bay Rum.

Because he had the money, compounded by the weariness brought on by his adventure, he took a cab to the hotel instead of walking as he did almost all the time.

Charley had been to the Fifth Avenue Hotel on a few previous occasions, but it was a long time ago. It was during the 1872 elections when he came out in support of Horace Greeley. In