The Life and Work of James A. Garfield, Twentieth President of the United States / Embracing an Account of the Scenes and Incidents of His Boyhood; the Struggles of His Youth; the Might of His Early Manhood; His Valor As a Soldier; His Career As a Statesman; His Election to the Presidency; and the Tragic Story of His Death.

by John Clark Ridpath

“7 P. M.—After the noon bulletin was issued, the President’s condition continued as then reported until about 4 P. M., when the commencement of the afternoon febrile rise was noted. In its degree it did not differ materially from that of yesterday. His pulse is now 108; temperature, 101.2; respiration, 19.”

FAC-SIMILE OF THE LAST LETTER WRITTEN BY GARFIELD.

The forty-second day.—Not much change. The President was weary and longed for a change of scene. The day when he could be safely removed from the White House was anxiously anticipated both by himself and the physicians. The United States steamer Tallapoosa, which had been undergoing repairs and fitting out for sea during the past month, was finally in complete readiness, and would be manned on the morrow. Assistant Paymaster Henry D. Smith, formerly of the Dispatch, had been transferred to the Tallapoosa. In a conversation of the morning, Mr. Smith gave a description of the manner in which the vessel had been fitted out. A suite of rooms had been prepared expressly for the use of President Garfield in the event of its being found practicable to take him out on the water, and at this time the suggestion of such a cruise seemed to please him greatly. The suite consisted of four comparatively large rooms, including a bed-chamber, reception and ante-room, and a bath-room. Paymaster Smith said further, that if it should be determined to take the President on the vessel, a swinging bed would be hung in his chamber so that the patient should not be annoyed by the motion of the vessel. Such were the plans and hopes which were never, alas, to be realized.

The surgeons’ reports for August 12th contained about all that could be said concerning the President’s condition for the day:

“8:30 A. M.—The President slept well during the greater part of the night. The fever of yesterday afternoon subsided during the evening, and has not been perceptible since 10 P. M. His general condition this morning is good. Pulse, 100; temperature, 98.6; respiration, 19.

“12:30 P. M.—The President has passed a comfortable morning. He continues to take, with repugnance, the liquid nourishment allowed, and ate with relish for breakfast, a larger quantity of solid food than he took yesterday. At present his pulse is 100; temperature, 99.3; respiration, 19.

“7 P. M.—The President has passed a comfortable day. At the evening dressing the wound was found to be doing well. The quantity of pus secreted is gradually diminishing. Its character is healthy. The rise of temperature this afternoon reached the same point as yesterday. At present the pulse is 108; temperature, 101.2; respiration, 19.”

Thus from hour to hour, from day to day, from week to week, did the President tread the long and weary way onward and—downward.

The forty-third day.—It was about this time that the attending surgeons finally abandoned their original diagnosis of the wound; that is, in so far as it concerned the direction of the ball. For some time Dr. Hamilton had given it as his view that the bullet, instead of entering the peritoneal cavity, and perforating the liver, had been turned downward at nearly a right angle to its course, and was lodged in the region behind the ilium. This view of the case was now accepted by the physicians in charge. In a conversation of the day, Dr. Bliss said that the latest examinations of the wound had clearly shown that the ball did not go through the liver. The liver was certainly injured by the shot, either by concussion or inflammation. At the present time, however, every indication corroborated the idea that the ball was in the region of the iliac fossa, and also that it was doing no harm.