White House gossip

by Edna M. Colman

The President was noticeably buoyant in spirit on the morning of July 2, 1881, in bidding adieu to his office staff as he departed for the railroad station, for he had planned a little trip that was to take him to Williams College, his Alma Mater, and then to join his wife at Long Branch for a longer trip with her and the older children.

Mrs. Garfield had come into the White House with a slight ailment that clung to her through her anxiety over her husband’s party difficulties, and as spring opened, this progressed and was increased through an attack of malaria, the scourge of the White House families for many years. After much medical consultation, she was sent to Long Branch for the benefit of the sea air. This had proved beneficial and the President had anticipated much pleasure from their projected trip.

President Garfield and Secretary Blaine were at the Pennsylvania railroad depot, about to depart. They were passing through the ladies’ waiting room when two pistol shots rang out. Mr. Blaine immediately turned and saw the President lurch forward and fall. A moment afterward, the assassin, Charles J. Guiteau, was discovered and was rescued with difficulty from the infuriated mob. A pistol of very heavy calibre was wrenched out of his hand, and it became clear that a large ball had entered the President’s body.

When in answer to eager questions, the physicians informed Garfield that he had “one chance in a hundred” of living, he said calmly and bravely: “Then, Doctor, we will take that chance.”

An ambulance was hastily called. The White House was notified. Harry, his eldest son, rushed to the station and very gently the wounded man was placed on a mattress and carefully lifted into the ambulance, his son beside him. The President whispered: “Rockwell, I want you to send a message to Crete. Tell her I am seriously hurt, how seriously I cannot yet say. I am myself, and hope she will come to me soon. I send my love to her.” Preceded by three mounted policemen and followed by others to keep the crowd back, the wounded President was borne to the White House. Such wild confusion as ensued can better be imagined than described. Like wildfire the news spread over the city, and soon the wires were flashing their terrible story to every city and town. Once again the nation was plunged into horror and grief over the fate that had befallen its head. Then followed days and weeks of prayerful anxiety among the watchers at the bedside and the people of the nation.

General Corbin, assistant adjutant general, had immediately provided a special train for Mrs. Garfield and Mollie. They returned to the White House as fast as the train could bring them, living through such agony and apprehension as can be appreciated only by those who have been confronted with a similar experience. To her great relief, Mrs. Garfield found her husband alive and able to talk with her, though suffering intensely.

Hopes ran high for his recovery because of his splendid health and strength, but soon it was apparent to the most optimistic that he would not recover. Physicians conferred and disagreed over the case and its diagnosis and treatment. Great authorities were consulted, but none could make a suggestion that brought relief, and the suffering man slipped farther down into the valley of the shadow. Into the minds of all watchers soon came the conviction that life was just a matter of days.

He expressed a desire to be taken where he could see the ocean, and elaborate preparations were made to insure a journey to Elberon, N. J., as comfortable for the sufferer as possible. Accordingly, on September 6th, a mattress was placed on an express wagon, and the trip to the station was made between daybreak and sunrise. In order to avoid driving over the cobblestones, the railroad put a little stretch of track from the station down to Pennsylvania Avenue and ran a car throughout its length, so that the invalid might be lifted directly from his mattress in the express wagon into the car. But even the sight of the sea did not benefit him, and while every comfort was provided for him at the cottage of O. G. Francklyn, he steadily failed. He died on September 19, 1881.

While President Garfield thus lingered between life and death, an important question arose as to the constitutional provision relating to the “disability” of the President. On the part of the Vice President, General Arthur, there was no move toward assuming the responsibilities of the executive office. To the Vice President, the situation was exceedingly trying, but he so conducted himself as to win universal respect. His whole bearing, from the day of the crisis to the close of the scene, was such as to indicate the profoundest sorrow and anxiety.

But, in other quarters, the President’s “disability” was eagerly discussed. The question arose: Was President Garfield disabled in the sense contemplated by the framers of the Constitution? Does that kind of prostration of the bodily powers in which there is still a prospect of recovery, which leaves the will free to act and the mental powers unimpaired, really involve disability? While these questions were much discussed, it was the universal public judgment that President Garfield was not in fact “disabled” in the sense of the Constitution. He continued to be the Chief Executive of the nation in fact as well as in name; his Cabinet met from time to time; and not until the fatal turn of affairs on September 19th, when the President breathed his last at Elberon, was there an actual change in the administration.