Straw Men

By Rodney Osborne

STRAW MEN is an historical novel thats set in motion when, on July 2, 1881, Charles Julius Guiteau shoots President James Garfield in a Washington, DC train station. It quickly became apparent that Guiteau was a lunatic - he loudly proclaimed that he had acted entirely on his own, having been instructed by God to remove the President in order to save the country. But was Garfields assassination truly the work of a deranged, lone gunman? The Byzantine political alliances that Americas Gilded Age had inherited from the trauma of Civil War, together with the tangled, and very public, personal relationships of the countrys most powerful leaders at the time, pointed toward the clear possibility of a larger, darker political plot. Had Guiteau, wittingly or not, merely been the sharp end of a well-disguised political conspiracy leading to a coup detat? The nations doubts had to be put to rest, so the Secret Service - formed during the Civil War to combat an epidemic of counterfeiting - was called upon to mount a national investigation designed to sort out the whole truth behind Guiteaus attack. The shocking story thats gradually uncovered in the course of this investigation reveals that all the players, great and small, in this densely complicated historical drama were being set up and used for one hidden purpose or another.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456748623

Rodney Osborne

Rodney Osborne is a former lawyer and an avid historian with a particular interest in the 19th century. He lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he writes, runs a business, and lives and dies with the Red Sox.

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© 2011 Rodney Osborne. All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 03/23/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4862-3 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4863-0 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011903219

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

June 26, 1881

CHAPTER 2

Mr. Charles Julius Guiteau

CHAPTER 3

An empty vessel, eager to be filled…

CHAPTER 4

A fine piece of theatre…

CHAPTER 5

…no damn good at all.

CHAPTER 6

…as odd as two is even.

CHAPTER 7

…a little favor now and again?

CHAPTER 8

…a pig in a poke.

CHAPTER 9

…forgetting old friends.

CHAPTER 10

A life as fine as this, or nearly…

CHAPTER 11

…why bother with convention?

CHAPTER 12

Contingencies…

CHAPTER 13

…a life of consequence.

CHAPTER 14

His Master’s voice…

CHAPTER 15

…an angel from Heaven.

CHAPTER 16

…the hand of God.

CHAPTER 17

…a perfectly reliable martyr?

CHAPTER 18

…something to give, not to claim.

CHAPTER 19

…a very useful straw man.

CHAPTER 20

A curiosity within a curiosity…

CHAPTER 21

…the rich pattern of his life.

CHAPTER 22

…we are muscular Christians.

CHAPTER 23

…nature’s Last Word.

CHAPTER 24

Let all honor be paid…

CHAPTER 25

…an intricate and subtle instrument.

CHAPTER 26

…killing is sometimes the only answer.

CHAPTER 27

…painting daisies in a piss-pot.

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

June 26, 1881

Placing both hands on the rough brownstone ledge, Charles Guiteau stretched himself to his full height and peered cautiously through the leaded-glass panes of the church window. He caught his breath at the very first thing he saw and pulled back quickly: there, just a few feet away — practically right in front of him! — sat his prey. Just where Guiteau had hoped he would be.

He pressed his back against the cool stone of the church and began slowly to breathe again, inhaling the soft scent of the few scrubby evergreens that surrounded and concealed him. The previous Sunday he had followed the man into the church and had seen him sitting in a private pew close to the narrow window. Now that he was back in that same pew again, Guiteau was satisfied that he could be found there, next to that window, every Sunday morning. Guiteau could scarcely believe his good fortune. If the window weren’t closed, he thought contentedly, I could spit in his ear!

The day was unusually cool for June in Washington. He was sure that when he returned next week he would find the window cranked open for any breath of air. He supposed that the window, whether open or closed, didn’t matter much, but he was admittedly inexperienced with firearms and felt that it would be preferable not to have to shoot through anything, even if it was only a pane of glass. A more compelling concern was that he would have to find a large rock or something to stand on if he was going to get a good, clear shot through a window that stood more than five feet off the ground. He would soon show the world that he was a great man, but nothing was going to make him a tall man.

In the midst of examining these practical matters, it occurred to him that he was ignoring a larger question, one that had been quietly nagging him for several days. Now that Guiteau had looked in the window and seen what was possible, the issue could no longer be put off. With his back still against the stone, he slowly sank to a squat as he considered the question: would it be better or worse to shoot him in a church?

Guiteau, a deeply religious man, intended no desecration. After all, since God had told him to do it, could it be wrong to do it in His house? Besides, he hoped that the country would appreciate the ironic flourish — the sinner cut down at his devotions. On the other hand, it might serve to further inflame opinion, cloud his purpose and give people one more reason to misunderstand him.

He had experienced similar misgivings that day in the railroad station. After waiting for two hours, every minute intently aware of the newly purchased revolver resting heavily in his coat pocket, Guiteau had seen his prey step off the train and walk to a waiting carriage, arm-in-arm with his frail-looking wife. She had seemed to Guiteau to be a decent woman and he had decided, then and there, that she deserved his forbearance. There would be enough pain for her without seeing her husband taken away right before her eyes.

That decision had been made and now here was another, even harder, question to consider. So many hard questions, he reflected, as he absently examined his small, neat hands; first the nails, then the palms. Each question had been an obstacle to overcome and one by one they had been overcome, and would continue to be overcome. Each question was a step on the path, one step closer to his destiny. From within the church he heard the faint swell of a hymn being taken up, and he looked up longingly at the window.

Should he do it in a church?

He got up slowly, momentarily tempted to sneak another look through the window. Then, shaking his head, he brushed between two of the evergreens and walked quickly away. This question was going to take some more thought.

****

Damn Conkling for his grandstanding! thought Vice President Chester Alan Arthur bitterly as he studied the view from the top floor of the Delavan House, pointedly ignoring the argument going on behind his back. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he wondered what Conkling could really have been thinking when he had suddenly resigned his Senate seat, placing his political future squarely in the hands of the New York state legislature. He claimed to have expected — foolishly, Arthur thought — that he would be promptly returned to Washington, triumphant and with a fresh vote of confidence from his home state. He was finding, however, that the political tide had turned.

And, dammit, he’s dragging me along with him, thought Arthur in disgust.

The Delavan House was the finest hotel in Albany and chock full of pleasant memories for Arthur. It had always been the place to celebrate after he and Conkling and the rest of their crowd had come up from New York City to slip one past the upstate rubes who filled the state legislature. There had been so many fine nights spent in the Delavan, feasting and drinking and enjoying the good company of political men like himself. But he wanted no part of the place just now. He didn’t want to be in Albany and he didn’t want any part of the scene being played out in the hotel suite.

In times past Arthur might have been able to find some amusement in the altercation which was threatening to erupt behind him. On one side of the table stood Henry Scrappin’ Hank Traskett, barely five and a half feet tall in his raised-heel boots, pop-eyed and sputtering with indignation. Facing down the feisty state legislator was the magnificent Roscoe Conkling, who until May 16 had been the senior United States Senator from the great state of New York, and the unquestioned leader of the Stalwarts. The Stalwarts and their foes the Halfbreeds were the two factions that had been competing for control of the governing Republican Party for several years. Physically imposing and in a splendid fury, Conkling was, as usual, busy turning life into theatre.

The Vice President, however, was in no mood to appreciate the tableau. He wondered if it was nothing more than the mild dyspepsia which had been discomforting him all afternoon, or the concern that his gastric attacks were becoming more frequent. You’ll be a martyr to your excesses, Conkling had sniffed without interest or sympathy while they were waiting for Traskett. The wait had put Conkling in a foul mood, just as Arthur had known it would. During the recent battle with James Blaine and his Halfbreed Republicans — which had culminated in the dramatic resignation from the Senate — Conkling had on one occasion been kept waiting for twenty minutes by President Garfield, and had been infuriated by the affront to his dignity. It was a long step down from the President to Hank Traskett, and the arrogant Lord Roscoe did not need to be reminded how far and how quickly he had fallen.

And now he can’t be bothered to treat this situation with any tact or subtlety, thought Arthur with annoyance. Conkling had started the discussion with Traskett by cataloguing the many favors he had granted over the years, and had then hinted at the generosity that would follow once Traskett had played his small part in correcting the political fix in which the Stalwart leader found himself. He was fooling no one with that talk, nor did he intend to. It suited Conkling that day to use old and dubious debts, and even more doubtful promises, as vaporous cover for the lurking threat that he might return to power without Traskett’s help.

Perhaps, thought Arthur, it is only my point of view that’s changed. This had recently been a favorite theme of his longtime valet and confidante, Eldon Branch. The unseemly give and take in that room was arguably no different than he had witnessed during most of their trips to the Delavan. More proof, as Branch was pleased to observe, that Arthur’s four months in the Vice Presidency had put a jack under his better self and changed his views on dignity and public responsibility. Apparently that was a change that Conkling refused to see or simply could not understand.

A sudden elevation in the pitch of the argument pulled Arthur back from his moody thoughts.

Your sense of obligation may be in for a startling re-examination before long, Traskett, Arthur heard Conkling thunder. You may count on it. The thinly veiled threat may have sufficed, especially as it was accompanied by a stabbing finger punctuating each of the last few words scant inches from Traskett’s crossing eyes. In any event, Conkling promptly sealed the bargain by adding: You ungrateful toad.

For a man of his generous proportions, Chester Arthur could show off some quick footwork when trouble threatened, and so he managed to intervene before Traskett could get around the table. Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, Arthur intoned as he glared his friend Conkling into silence while maneuvering the smaller man to the far side of the hotel suite. A brawl, he was thinking miserably, is the last thing we need. No doubt Conkling would have thrashed the wretched little upstart, but after all, a vote was a vote.

With both hands on Traskett’s shoulders, Arthur quietly, urgently reminded him that the Senator was not quite himself that day. The strain of the situation, you understand. Please excuse how this was handled, but do consider the message. Indeed, sir, consider carefully the substance of what was said and forgive the messenger. On the other side of the room Conkling continued to strut and mutter, appearing to be just barely in control of himself. He caught Arthur’s eye and turned as if to speak, but was stopped by Arthur’s raised hand — he had the look of a man on the verge of embellishing previous unfortunate comments. Even as Arthur scrambled to clean up the mess Conkling had made he couldn’t help being a little awed that the man could manage in a single impression to convey a slighted aristocrat, imperially out of sorts, and a street brawler, just on the edge of violence.

As Arthur ushered the shaken legislator out of the suite with a promise to set things right, tomorrow, he thought of the recent Thomas Nast drawing of himself as Conkling’s bootblack, with the caption: I did not engage you, Vice President Arthur, to do this kind of work.

Indeed, he thought, it was a fine thing for the Vice President of the United States to be hustling the votes of state legislators. Particularly on behalf of his President’s most prominent political enemy. Why hadn’t he been able to see this coming when he consented to join the ticket the year before? Feeling an overwhelming desire to be elsewhere, Arthur closed the door, quietly held the handle for a few moments, then turned back to Conkling, obviously exasperated and intent upon speaking his mind.

But before he could open his mouth, Roscoe Conkling had taken the stage. With balled fists on his hips, his shoulders squared and his bearded chin raised, he had arranged himself into a picture of Victorian grandeur. Beneath the Hyperion curl which he affected, his eyes flashed and commanded Arthur’s attention.

"That mere…insignificance imagines that he might dictate to me! Could you believe it? When it’s been just how long since he would hop to my merest whim? Just like that! he sneered as he snapped his fingers. You were right to come between us, Chet, for I would’ve been glad of the opportunity to beat some measure of respect into the miserable dwarf. By God, he deserved it!"

When he received no response Conkling glanced away, then continued in a softer tone. I know you’re upset with me, Chet, but dammit, I’m used to arranging the affairs of men like Traskett so…so easily. I am not yet accustomed to my new station in life and its requisite subtleties, which seem beyond my grasp — no, more likely beneath my dignity! In any event, I’m used to power; you know that. The art of accommodation escapes me.

As quickly as Conkling had made the speech, Arthur’s spirit had wilted. They had played their roles together far too long for Arthur to stand up to him now, so he tried patience instead. Roscoe, I’ve told you before, nothing will come of this bullying. You have to see that the lay of the land has changed. We must work with a lighter hand.

Conkling shook his head emphatically and his gloved hands angrily cut the air: "Nothing has changed! Not really. I have earned their support and I deserve it…now! This is when I need it most, after all these years. Those who’ve stood by me — good men like you, Chet — shall reap their reward, but those who have not…like that, that purblind lickspittle! he gestured angrily toward the door, …shall be given a lesson in loyalty. A harsh lesson. Damn, Chet, it was just three months ago that I…"

Three months is three months past, pleaded Arthur. It’s now June 28th and you’ve just put one of your jurors in mortal fear that you may be acquitted. You must be nothing but honey these days, Roscoe. I’m sorry, but that’s it, that’s where it stands.

That toad Traskett might well be fearful of what will happen to him once I am back in power. And I will be, Mr. Vice President. Then you and I shall show these yokels a thing or two.

Perhaps we will, said Arthur, wearily rubbing his eyes. He felt damned poorly and was tired of the game. For now, however, these yokels — these 106 state legislators — they hold your future in their hands. There’ll be no return to the United States Senate for you unless you concentrate on turning some of these fellows around, not scaring them away. It won’t be easy; you’ve picked a difficult battle. Garfield is still new in his Presidency, with lots of goodwill and also plenty of jobs still to pass around…

James Garfield? Conkling exploded with sarcasm. Our noble President Garfield, dirty his hands with patronage? I’m surprised to hear you suggest that he’d lower himself, the self-righteous ass!

Arthur passed over the interruption: And while we’re on the subject, please try to remember my position, won’t you? I am the Vice President. I am also here in Albany doing everything I can for you. The unhappy result of which is that I am being savaged on all sides. Not a day goes by without The Times howling about the Vice President twisting arms for the leader of the opposition. Don’t ask me to do more than I can.

Would you desert me too? asked Conkling quickly.

Never — but give me the opportunity to do whatever I can do for you and still maintain the dignity of my office.

Your office? The Vice Presidency? Hah! I’m sorry, Chet, but you know what I think of that. Dorsey and I did our work and the country voted Republican. Really, you had nothing to do with it — you know that. I could have delivered New York with or without you.

Conkling laughed harshly and poured two brandies. He passed his glass under his nose, inhaling deeply, as he smiled at the Vice President over the top of his snifter, maddeningly confident and haughty. Arthur opened his mouth to speak and Conkling cut in with a shrug: Face up, man! You were only an offering to me, to engage me in the campaign. There is nothing to your office except the fine title and the delightful prospect that James Abram Garfield may one day soon fall down the stairs, leaving you to inherit the Presidency. Then you and I would have some real fun. With a satisfied smile and a flourish, Conkling presented the brandy to the Vice President. "Truthfully, sir, that’s the only part of your new job which merits any interest whatsoever. Too bad it’s so unlikely to happen. As for your dignity…well, there’s no more dignity than may be found in fulfilling the obligations of an old friendship. That is something, Chet, which you would be well-advised never to forget. Never."

Nor shall I, answered Arthur softly. He looked at his brandy for a moment, consulted his stomach, then set the snifter down. He wished that he had the strength to say more but his will was drained by the weight of their common past and the too-familiar confines of his end of the relationship. So he ignored his mentor’s insulting tone and returned dutifully to the issue at hand. Roscoe, my point remains. There are only 106 voters for you now, so concentrate on winning them and save the rest for later. Otherwise you may never return to the Senate.

Conkling smiled again at Arthur then looked away, posing again, apparently unconcerned by the prospect. Who knows? I may never want to. I might prefer to go into business. I certainly wouldn’t go back to the Senate if I was instead given the job for which I’m best suited; that being, of course, the Secretary of State. There’s the job for me, much better than the Senate. And not just because it would give me the monumental satisfaction of tossing that ass Blaine and his idiotic pretensions into the street. I’d make one fine Secretary of State; what d’you think, Chet?

"Not bloody likely," is what Chet thought as he picked up his brandy snifter and drained it.

****

The barrel-chested marionette was bearded and impressively stern looking. It would have taken someone far less perceptive than its inspiration not to be able to discern that the cartoon puppet was meant to be the President of the United States, especially since Garfield Administration was sketched into the stocking cap it wore. Nor was there any need to guess at the identity of the sad- eyed puppeteer leaning in from above and pulling the strings — the distinctive features of Secretary of State James Blaine were the joy of political cartoonists everywhere.

Not very clever, muttered President Garfield absently as he studied the drawing, leaning over a table in Blaine’s drawing room. There had been times during the first three months of his presidency when such insults to himself and his office would have driven him to distraction, but he had recently learned to disregard them. The few weeks since Conkling’s resignation had offered much reason to hope that his young administration might be clearing itself of the partisan squabbling which had paralyzed it thus far, and that particular evening Garfield was almost giddy with the notion that things were finally being set right.

He moved to the large bow front window at the front of the room to gaze out on the peaceful greenery of Lafayette Park. Rocking lightly from his heels to the balls of his feet, he looked into the faces of the people walking through the park and those in the carriages that clattered over the cobblestones on the street in front of Blaine’s handsome, brick townhouse. He lingered over the thought that these people were his people — he had hardly had time to think about them in that way before. They were responsible for him being President, and so he, in turn, was responsible for them. And they, having chosen well and waited patiently, deserved better work from their government than they were being given. He was going to do all that he could to see that they got what they deserved, which decision had led to him spontaneously coming across the park that evening to collect his Secretary of State for dinner.

What was keeping him? he wondered. He glanced at the clock on the mantle, then turned and called into the quiet of the house: Blaine! Let’s be about it, man. The day wastes away. He felt a bit foolish that his call was answered only by the pleasant tocking of the clock and the nearly inaudible soft whoosh of the room’s gas lighting. He had been given to understand that his unplanned visit had interrupted the hatching and mothering of one of the Byzantine political plots which Blaine loved so well. The thought flickered, and not for the first time, that Blaine sometimes showed too little regard for the proper order of things. It didn’t seem right that the President should be left waiting in the drawing room, even if the visit was unplanned. But as quickly as the thought had come, Garfield pushed it aside. It wasn’t very pleasant to contemplate the state into which his rickety administration might have fallen if it hadn’t been for Blaine’s elaborate scheming. The truth was, despite all the powers of his office, Garfield needed Blaine. He had little stomach for intrigue, and even less for the heavy-handed political manipulation that went along with it, but he had at least finally come to appreciate that it was impossible to run the government without such regrettable expedients.

They formed a nice balance, he and Blaine, thought the President. A good team. Blaine’s understanding of the governmental process, coupled with a natural, sometimes callous, flair for manipulating men and circumstances, had made him an invaluable ally. Garfield recognized that such skills were valuable and probably admirable in a politician, but having no such abilities himself he was inclined to think of them as black arts which could turn on the layman, untutored and naive, who attempted them by himself. Consequently, he had let Blaine do the dirty work, leaving for himself the touch of guilt which reminded him that his office was probably being tainted, just a bit, by his tacit involvement.

And as for his end of the balance… Garfield turned his gaze once again to Lafayette Park and pondered what it was that he brought to this fine team, other than the power of the office which he held. As if that weren’t enough. A connection to the people, he decided; a bond of trust. The people had placed their trust in him and he would surely do right by them.

Ah, James, there you are, Blaine announced as he swept into the room, his attention held by the papers he was carrying. So sorry to have kept you waiting, but there seems more and more to do, and, ah… He paused and looked up to find Garfield beaming at him from across the room. Well, you’re looking fit and saucy. Yes, indeed. Ready for vacation, I should imagine. You’ll be leaving Saturday morning?

Four more days, Garfield agreed. And I’ll not miss this reclaimed swamp during the summer, you may be sure. Did Dotson tell you we have dinner waiting?

Yes, and news to impart. Blaine’s attention had returned to his papers. Just a few moments more, James. Someone has to tend the garden.

Garfield crossed the room and caught his friend with one arm, turning him toward the hall. Blaine, old friend, it’s time to down tools. Whatever it is, it can wait — your President commands your company. It’s a fine evening and we can talk as we take the air in the park.

The President walked out of the house and down the steps to the sidewalk, where he found himself waiting again while Blaine hung by front door to speak with Dotson, his personal secretary. He looked up impatiently as Blaine energetically made his points, started down the steps then hopped back to the door, remembering further points. Garfield’s Secretary of State was an animated speaker, his hands and body a riot of fidget and gesture. In contrast, his face was placid and dour, almost like a fixed mask, rarely showing expression except for occasional darting, almost guilty, glances, and quicker half-smiles which came and went for reasons that never seemed clear. His bulbous nose, sad eyes, hanging ears, and the flesh sagging beneath his beard lied about the spirit and energy of the man; the lie disguised his cunning and ambition.

Come Blaine, it will keep, President Garfield bellowed in exasperation, rapping his walking stick on the brick sidewalk for emphasis. With a broad wink for the benefit of a passing couple, he added, You’ll have my people believing their President has nothing better to do than stand around, admiring the evening.

The man tipped his hat and the woman blushed demurely as they walked past. A close, if unexpected, interaction such as this with the President was not out of the ordinary in Washington in 1881.

You’re right, James, said Blaine as he came briskly down the front steps to join Garfield on the sidewalk. It is a lovely evening, more like summer in Maine than Washington. Makes me long for home.

They paused for a passing carriage as they crossed the street to Lafayette Park. Blaine looked around them and said: You know, it’s not only the weather which makes the town seem so pleasant today. I passed through the Willard this afternoon and it was so magnificently empty without Conkling’s wretched crowd camped out in every corner. Before we tied a can to Lord Roscoe’s tail I couldn’t have gone ten steps in there before their hellish din would’ve overwhelmed me — cracking lobster, popping corks, vile imprecation! Would’ve fouled my mood.

Garfield said nothing, so Blaine continued as the two walked on: Yes, it really does appear that Senator Conkling may not return. It seems as if his self-inflicted wound may prove fatal.

I still think there must be more to his resignation that meets the eye, mused Garfield.

Perhaps. I hear he intends to go into business and become a railroad lawyer. Blaine shook his head in wonder, and tugged at his beard where it met his Adams apple. Well, he’ll make one damn sharp lawyer, and no mistake, but that’s someone’s else’s problem. Yes sir, a new career for Roscoe, and no doubt pots of cash. Good riddance to him.

Bastard doesn’t need the money, said Garfield bitterly, more to himself than to Blaine.

No, he doesn’t, agreed Blaine, somewhat taken aback by the rare Garfield curse and the vehemence which lay behind it. He still found it curious that Garfield had been maneuvered so easily into battle with Conkling, and also that he had proven to be such a determined adversary. Even now, in the flush of victory, his bitterness was palpable. Most of Blaine’s public life had been defined by his on-going war with Conkling, and he found it almost unnerving that someone could detest the man more strongly than he. Enough of him. As I said, good riddance. On to other battles.

This was as good an opening as any for Garfield. Exactly my thoughts, Blaine. Since we seem to be free of the man — God willing — we are also free to decide where to go from here. So I’ve decided to put civil service reform at the top of the list. That is what I came to tell you…

Not at the top of the list, surely, Blaine countered quickly. Damn, he cried inwardly, I had thought we were past this! James, I must urge caution, a slow hand. There are other, better… He caught an impatient look from Garfield and stepped up his attack. Patronage, properly used, is our most productive tool, James — for building a machine which will accomplish our goals. That should be our priority now, even in the absence of Roscoe Conkling…

Garfield was not going to be put off again. Yes, I know, we’ve been over this issue again and again, Blaine, and I take your point. Patronage in Conkling’s hands — or Grant’s for that matter, or any Stalwart — is a crime against the Republic. Whereas purer hearts such as our own will use it for the common good. Fine. I’m not being sarcastic; I’m afraid I agree with you. Garfield suddenly pulled up and turned Blaine around with a hand on his shoulder. He drew closer, taking advantage of his imposing size, and came to his point, which he emphasized by tapping the head of his walking stick on the other’s chest. It’s just that the system should not be left in place which has no checks on the bad intentions of those who wield the power. That’s all I’m saying. The people deserve better. He nodded dramatically, then turned to continue their stroll, his right hand holding Blaine’s left elbow, his stick pointing the way. You and I, saints though we are, won’t be sitting on the throne forever, you know…

We’re both of us up there, are we? Blaine injected with a laugh and a sideways look. He wondered where the President had picked up this recent fondness for using his walking stick as a theatrical prop. Why, that’s even worse than the Herald would have us believe.

Sorry, you’re right, Garfield agreed, chuckling. I should say that it won’t always be me on the damn thing, with you behind…the power behind, as it were…

Gibbering in your ear like a monkey, Blaine completed the image, thinking of another recent Nast drawing.

Ah, now there you’ve mixed us up, old friend, Garfield shot back with some relish, striking the brick path with his stick once again. I hate to confess it, but I’ve seen one which features myself in the monkey’s role, not you. Did you see it? It was like this: me with a small hat, a large beard; you as some species of an organ grinder, holding the leash and, one may assume, calling the tune. Fine thing, isn’t it? Damned impudence, of course, but what can you expect these days?

Blaine shook his head sadly; he had seen the drawing. He worried about the effect of such public slights on Garfield’s resolve.

I must say, sir, added Garfield solemnly. These cartooning fellows seem to take a uniformly extreme view of that fine, proud nose of yours. Less than flattering.

Blaine tugged absently at his nose as he smiled and winced in a single expression, making him appear even sadder than usual. He dismissed it all with a preemptive wave of the hand, saying: Pay it no heed. You’re no puppet; not for me or anyone. But I hope you’ll listen to sound advice. He looked quickly at Garfield: Move slowly on reform, and in ways…

Garfield rolled his eyes to the heavens.

…And in ways which we can use. Blaine ignored the President’s response, with sudden intense focus. Granted, James, Conkling and his ilk use the spoils system for their own purposes, their own personal goals, whereas in a larger, final sense we propose to take the power elsewhere. There is a simple and critical difference there, not just a convenience, not just an argument based upon the ends justifying the means. We should not throw out a system which can be used well simply because it is susceptible of corruption. We are sadly imperfect creatures for whom corruption will always have its place, with any system. In the meantime, however, there are larger issues for us to address…

"Few larger than civil service reform, my friend? I mean that. It is what I came to tell you tonight. I have decided that we must have it, and soon. The English — good God, the English, of all people! — have implemented reform with great success. If they can, with their system far more entrenched than ours…well, so should we. This spoils system is strangling governance and we are strangling ourselves in the process. I never realized how bad it was until these past months. When public responsibility is bought and sold without regard for effective government, it is the country that pays the price."

Blaine started to object again, but Garfield cut him off. "Meaningful control of the civil service is right, by God, and I was elected to do right by this country. And that, sir, is my final decision. The people deserve a meritocracy, and they shall have it. Garfield paused and brightened, then laid his hand once again on Blaine’s arm. In a tone which mocked conspiracy he added, Think how surprised people would be to hear you argue against reform. You really have a quite Machiavellian notion of governance, don’t you, my friend. Thank goodness the people of this great land were kind enough to install me in office to keep an eye on you. But enough of all that, let’s talk of other things. I’m off to Williamstown in four short days. And now we’ve got a grand dinner waiting for us, complemented by whatever we choose to pull from that lovely wine cellar I inherited with this job."

Blaine seemed distracted, so Garfield pulled him closer and added, Come, James. Let’s go raise a toast to old Rutherford Hayes — and another to that terrifying harridan he married, the redoubtable Lemonade Lucy — for being so abstemious as to leave General Grant’s fine collection to age untouched. For four years. And every last drop still there for us.

As the two men continued on their arm-in-arm stroll through Lafayette Park, drifting between laughter and quiet conversation, they were watched by a small, dark, intense man in a shabby, patched coat, pulled tight around the collar despite the evening’s warmth. His staring eyes widened as the two men passed within a hundred feet, his sparse beard twitched as his mouth worked reflexively beneath it, occasionally chewing at the ends of his moustache.

There you go, just as chatty and cozy as a couple of schoolgirls, Charles Guiteau muttered softly to himself. Then he spit and added venomously: Mr. Garfield, you’ve sold your soul to that devil!

He watched intently, still chewing at his moustache, as Garfield and Blaine crossed the street to the White House. Then he turned and walked in the opposite direction, toward his lodging house, marveling once again that it had fallen to him to save the Republic. The hand of God had touched him just as he was now touching the pistol in his coat pocket, and together they would set things right.

CHAPTER 2

Mr. Charles Julius Guiteau

Immediately upon his return to the lodging house at 810 12th Street, Guiteau was confronted by Mrs. Lockwood, his irritated landlady. Since none of her better tenants were on hand to witness an unpleasant scene, she took the opportunity to demand that he do something about his long overdue rent. Dealing with an angry creditor was nothing new to Guiteau; it was, in fact, so familiar as to be almost calming for him. Holding her eye, he attempted to overbear her will as he applied the balm of a practiced deadbeat. He tried to calm her, and confidently assured her of prompt payment as soon as a temporary financial dislocation was smoothed over. All the while his right hand gripped the pearl handle of the .44 Bulldog revolver which he held in the pocket of his overcoat.

As she prattled on about his shortcomings as a tenant and how she never should have taken him in without a reference, he considered how satisfying it would be to quiet her. He stared vacantly at her and imagined stopping her in mid-sentence with a single shot from his pistol. He could see her eyes, wide, surprised and staring, her shocked mouth frozen open, halfway through a baseless complaint, the blood foaming and bubbling from her lungs, drowning the insults. He felt strong with the knowledge that he could do it; he surely could — and he would, too, if he didn’t have more important matters to attend to.

So he deflected the last of her entreaties and moved past her, down the hall toward the small room he rented at the back of the house. She called after him: Mr. Guiteau, you’ll pay the rent all right, but I want you out of here anyhow. And I want you out soon. You’re bothering the respectable tenants, particularly General Logan. I’ll not have that. I have an honest house to run here.

Guiteau turned and asked: Bothering them, how? He was insulted; he did not understand; he was once again the victim of a cruel world. In what way, madam, have I been bothering General Logan? Why, I’m the only one here who dares speak with the man. We have informed discussions.

He don’t want your discussions, nor anyone else here. Most of `em are scared of you. They think you’re crazy and they’re…

She stopped suddenly as Guiteau whipped around again and glared at her with imperious fury from down the hallway. Though in many ways he was a ridiculous character, his wild looks and intense demeanor could make him appear threatening when he was angry. He stood facing her for several moments in silence as he collected himself, then told her fiercely that he would leave as soon as he could find new lodgings and that she would be paid in full upon his departure. He added that she and her lodgers, whatever they thought, could go to the devil, and with that he stamped proudly into his room, closing the door with pronounced conviction, but carefully short of an undignified slam.

Once alone in his small room, the haughty swagger drained out of Guiteau and he collapsed in a chair with his chin sinking to his chest. His elbows rested on the arms of the small chair and he gazed wearily at his hands. They were small but, to his eyes, elegant. He liked his hands, slim and white, soft and untroubled by manual labor. He liked to keep them clean even when the rest of him was filthy. He pressed one thumb into the flesh of the opposing palm and slowly, luxuriously rubbed one hand with the other, front and back, as he admired them. They were the hands of a thinker — a lawyer and a theologian — yet they were not without strength. They were hands that could hold a gun and do what had to be done.

A gun, he thought; how easy it would have been to have shot that nattering, useless creature where she stood. He made a gun of one hand. He ran two fingers up and down the elegant, tapered forefinger that was the barrel, and shuddered at the thought of it exploding with a deadly shot. And then, he thought excitedly, his gun would point at her again as she lay bleeding and shaking and dying. He would laugh and call out: Care to insult me again, old woman? I’ve killed better than you before! And again the finger fired and this time she lay still.

She’ll not call me crazy again in this life!

"Stop it!" he thought, shocked to catch the sight of himself in the cracked wall mirror, with his right arm extended and his finger pointing and shaking. He hadn’t even been aware that he had gotten out of the chair to stand triumphantly over the victim that he was imagining dying before him. His arm came down and he slumped back into the chair.

How could he allow himself to succumb to bloody fantasies when such distractions could only get in the way of his mission? That mission deserved all of his attention; he had no time to indulge himself in the imagined slaughter of an insignificant woman! However much she deserved it. A fleeting memory of Buffalo drifted through his mind and he shook with revulsion and shook himself free of the evil thought. He could not allow the purity of his motives to be called into question. He could not allow anyone to believe that he could kill just for the pleasure of killing. Certain truths would have to remain secret forever or the country would surely turn against him in the end.

He trudged over to his bed, sat on the edge and told himself that the nobility of his actions required a certain nobility of thought as well. To indulge a taste for violence would sully an act that was both spiritual and patriotic, and that must not happen. He fell back on the bed feeling tired and drained. After several minutes he fell asleep for the first time in two days, without even taking off his overcoat.

****

July at last; what a month this will be, thought Guiteau as he strolled through the ornate lobby of the Riggs House with his hands clasped behind his back and a satisfied smile crossing his face.

If they only knew that I’m here to save them, he marveled, tipping his worn hat to a group of strangers as he left the hotel.

Just one more day, he murmured as he walked down the street, thinking of the newspaper clipping, now three days old, in his coat pocket. It told him that on July 2 at 9:30 in the morning, President Garfield would be catching a train to Elberon, New Jersey where he would meet his wife. Together they planned an extended summer vacation to New England and then home to Mentor, Ohio. July 2, tomorrow, had to be the day. The President would not return until the end of the summer and God alone knew the state the country would be in by then. Guiteau had been a bit relieved to find that Garfield was departing on a Saturday as it ended his rumination on the wisdom of a church shooting. For the rest of the day he had nothing to do but enjoy the sense of standing at the crossroads, at a pivotal point both in history and in his own life. What a nice idea, he thought: that the two were at last to be intertwined. Along with the pleasant anticipation came a lot of nervous energy, and Guiteau decided that he should spend the day walking and thinking.

He had taken his leave of Mrs. Lockwood’s house early in the morning following their confrontation, without having paid her a dime, of course, and he hadn’t bothered searching for a new lodging house. Instead he had made straight for the Riggs House, having decided that when a man becomes the center of attention he should be found living in a high toned hotel rather than a simple boarding house. He imagined the newspaper accounts referring to him as Mr. Guiteau of the Riggs House in Washington, D.C… Maybe they would describe him as "C.J. Guiteau, noted lawyer, theologian and author of The Truth: A Companion to the Bible… Or perhaps: Charles Guiteau, the original proponent of the ‘Rebel Wars Claims Idea’, which tipped the balance of last year’s presidential election in favor of the Republicans…"

The last thought dampened his spirits, as it reminded him of his betrayal at the hands of the new administration. They had used him and his ideas — particularly the war claims idea — then had cast him aside. Their betrayal was painful to consider. Worse, it made him wonder, certain as he was of what he was doing, whether vengeance might be lurking behind his reasoning.

He was certain, wasn’t he? Well, maybe just a little bit of vengeance, he acknowledged to himself; and why not? He was only human, even if divinely inspired.

How ironic that it was I who put Garfield in office and I shall be the one to take him out, he thought. He went over his familiar bill of particulars as he hurried along the street, his hands tugging at his beard. "If only he had acknowledged what I had done for him, or rewarded me in some way, or given me my due. That’s all I required. Nothing for my friends, I asked for nothing else. Just what I was…what I am legitimately entitled to receive in exchange for my good works and efforts. My ideas! Lord, what use I could have been to that man had he but asked. He must understand that, I know that he did. I know, and yet I get nothing!"

He stopped, chewing a fingernail, uncertain what to do as he felt the rage building within him. In frustration he angrily kicked at a piece of newspaper which tumbled in the breeze at his feet. "Instead my reward has been betrayal! Denial of my role, any role. His kick flipped the newspaper into the air and he stumbled as he reached to grab it, frustrating him further. On a second try he did manage to snatch it out of the air and as he ripped it viciously in half, he sputtered aloud: It’s Blaine who’s seen that I was treated like this, the swine!"

He caught himself and quieted as he noticed a passing woman watching him strangely. He inclined his head, tipped his tattered hat and gave her his most charming smile. She turned quickly and walked away but he stared after her, the smile and the hat frozen in place.

No, stay and look, my dear, he said, this time quietly, only to himself. "You’ll see something to tell your grandchildren about. Yes, you will. They’ll be looking at me different tomorrow, you can bet. They’ll all be lining up to get a good look at me. You could stand me and Blaine in two tents and everyone would ignore