Finding Garfield 3
Note: All the incredible James Garfield quotes are really his words
James Garfield anxiously scribed a letter to his wife, unable to focus on his task for tomorrow. “You can never know how much I need you during these days of storm.” His hands resisted the prodding of his brain to liberate the correct words in favor of John Sherman’s presidential candidacy. “Every hour I want to go and state some case to your quick intuition.” He could not bring himself to support Blaine, and certainly not Grant. Sherman was hardworking and intelligent, but James was unsure of his ability to unite their divided party. “I have not made the first step in preparation for my speech nominating Sherman and I see no chance to get to prepare. It was a frightful mistake that I not write before I came. It now seems inevitable that I shall fall far below what I ought to do.”
Overcome with exhaustion, James gave up on speech writing and decided that a night of rest would be nearly as valuable as proper preparation. Trying to ignore the stuffy humidity of his hotel room, James lay down and closed his eyes. He focused on feeling his hands from the inside, and the warmth of his pulse resonated up his arms. He then focused on feeling his legs from the inside as his consciousness slipped deeper into his body. His mind’s eye filled with the churning blackness of the sea and his dreams began with memories of his job as a canal driver.
Sixteen-year-old James stood on the edge of the boat, distractedly coiling a loose rope and gazing at Venus and the moon above the canal. His foot somehow caught on the tail of the rope and the deck of the boat suddenly disappeared beneath him. The icy water hit his body like lightning. He grasped frantically for the rope, but the darkness of the water was swallowing him as he tumbled to the depths. In the distance, he could see a faint light. James ferociously paddled his arms and legs towards it for several eternities, but he failed to make any progress. He felt something touch his left shoulder. Partially turning his body, he desperately reached into the shadowy water.
A rock. Disoriented, he reached out with his other hand and found himself facing what must be the murky bottom of the canal. Kicking his feet, he shifted his body until he was able to brace his feet on the stony floor, and then attempted to stand up. When his head broke the surface, he was instantly blinded by impossibly bright sunlight. The noise threatened to deafen him as he pushed his way to the shallows. Waves and laughter and chaotic melodies and large white seagulls dashed through the air. An assembly of beings frolicked in the waves and lay on the sand. Their bodies were barely clothed in brilliantly glistening colors, previously unwitnessed to him in nature; some draped in flowing gowns and other’s heads adorned with fanciful coverings. Those with large, black eyes lay on the blindingly white sand under brightly colored parasols, hedonistically indulging in unfamiliar delicacies.
Overawed, James turned from the shore to face the unending sea. Where the water met the horizon, he saw a dozen sailboats, each supernaturally white against the blue. Ahead he saw a brunette maiden, perhaps a few years younger than himself. Her alabaster body was carefully ornamented with scraps of shimmering purple fabric, delicately covering her most intimate areas. She too, was facing the open ocean, so did not appear to notice his sudden arrival. He awkwardly splashed towards her and she smiled playfully as the waves gently lifted her body. Without acknowledging him, the young lady stepped deeper into the sea. He followed through the thick seaweed and whitecaps until she abruptly stopped. They stood on the edge of the sea shelf. The crystalline blue of the water, now nearly up to their necks, descended into pure blackness ahead.
“I wonder how deep it goes,” she spoke in a whisper.
Just then, a wave broke over his head, and James was pummeled into the sand and rocks below. His mouth and nose filled with deep blue, salt-less water, and his ears and eyes with the sights and sounds above and below and above and below and above. He somersaulted through the abyss, and down the sandy slope. Until he stopped. His body lay at the edge of the shelf. James reached over the edge and felt the feathery softness of a rope. Stretching out, he grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled with all of his might. His body plunged through the darkness and the water broke over his head. Gasping for breath, he tensed his arms and legs to grip the rope, and climbed. He climbed until he reached the blessedly hard deck of the boat he had been driving through the canal. Examining the loose rope that had nearly sent him to his demise, he found it had blessedly caught its knot on a floorboard, by sheer providence.
And then he fell.
Eyes dashing open, James stared into the twilight of his hotel room. He figured several hours still remained before dawn. The night persisted for him to over-analyze the purpose of his disjointed memories and dreams. And so, he did, until he must rise to attend to his day. His day presenting an unlikely candidate to the 1880 Republican National Convention.
…
James’ clothes stuck to his damp skin as he sat through the seemingly endless bureaucracy of nomination speeches. He internally bemoaned the necessity of assembling on a Saturday in June. As Conkling finished his exuberant promotion of Ulysses S. Grant, James’ head began to swim. The crowded convention room was exploding with riotous cheers for Grant. Simultaneous angry hisses and cheerful ovations poured into his ears, threatening to crush his mind. Piercing through the sensory overload, James heard his name. The secretary was calling him forward to speak. He stood dizzily and was inevitably swept to the podium. As he looked upon the tumultuous horde of politicians, arguing and cheering maniacally, his clear vision returned and he felt the coolness of the salt-less sea soothing his body. Without a written speech in hand, he began to speak serenely.
“Mr. President, I have witnessed the extraordinary scenes of this Convention with deep solicitude. Nothing touches my heart more quickly than a tribute of honor to a great and noble character; but as I sat in my seat and witnessed this demonstration, this assemblage seemed to me a human ocean in tempest. I have seen the sea lashed into fury and tossed into spray, and its grandeur moves the soul of the dullest man; but I remember that it is not the billows, but the calm level of the sea from which all heights and depths are measured.
“When the storm has passed and the hour of calm settles on the ocean, when the sunlight bathes its peaceful surface, then the astronomer and surveyor take the level from which they measure all terrestrial heights and depths.”
The room appeared to hold its breath; each mind imagining itself in the calm sea of James’ vision.
“Gentlemen of the Convention, your present temper may not mark the healthful pulse of our people. When your enthusiasm has passed, when the emotions of this hour have subsided, we shall find below the storm and passion that calm level of public opinion from which the thoughts of a might people are to be measured, and by which their final action will be determined.
“Not here, in this brilliant circle where 15,000 men and women are gathered, is the destiny of the Republic to be decreed for the next four years. Not here, where I see the enthusiastic faces of 756 delegates, waiting to cast their lots into the urn and determine the choice of the Republic; but by four millions of Republican firesides, where the thoughtful voters, with wives and children about them, with the calm thoughts inspired by love of home and country, with the history of the past, the hopes of the future, and reverence for the great men who have adorned and blessed our nation in days gone by, burning in their hearts—there God prepares the verdict which will determine the wisdom of our work to-night. Not in Chicago, in the heart of June, but at the ballot-boxes of the Republic, in the quiet of November, after the silence of deliberate judgment, will this question be settled. And now, gentlemen of the Convention, what do we want?”
“We want Garfield!” came a voice from the stupefied audience, followed by renewed cheers. James attempted to ignore the interruption and continued to speak, outlining the achievements of their party and finally emphasizing his support for John Sherman. His speech concluded and he prayed to God that he need not be considered for the position.
In the following days, James was repeatedly pressured by his supporters to accept a nomination, but his loyalty to Sherman’s cause was unwavering. The voting began on Monday. On the first ballot, Grant and Blaine split most of the votes, with Sherman taking a considerable share, but none of the three received the 379 votes necessary to secure a win. On the third ballot, a single delegate cast his vote for James Garfield. James pointedly ignored the decision and the balloting continued. The burden of the process mounted as the hours passed without resolution. After twelve hours and twenty-eight ballots cast without avail, the delegates decided to reconvene the next day.
The frustratingly monotonous process began similarly on Tuesday. It was not until the thirty-fourth ballot that something changed in the numbers. The change prompted James to rise and speak suddenly, “I challenge the correctness of the announcement. The announcement contains votes for me. No man has a right, without the consent of the person voted for, to announce that person’s name, and vote for him, in this convention. Such consent I have not given!”
James Garfield had received seventeen votes.
The chairman of the convention told James to resume his seat, and immediately called for another ballot. The tides had shifted.
James Garfield received fifty votes.
But no candidate yet had the majority. The thirty-sixth ballot was called for. As the voting proceeded, James’ head swirled with the discordance of the crashing waves. A telegram from Sherman arrived, appealing to all delegates who voted for him to instead vote for Garfield.
“Cast my vote for Sherman!” James desperately yelled. And yet, the votes for Garfield continued to roll in, state by state.
He received 399 votes.
Conkling, who had just days before so passionately promoted Grant for the nomination, rose and spoke quietly,
“James A. Garfield of Ohio, having received a majority of all the votes, I arise to move that he be unanimously presented as the nominee of this convention.”
Art by Danilo Zammattio
Recommended Reading:
Destiny of the Republic Book by Candice Millard
DARK HORSE: The Surprise Election and Political Murder of President James A. Garfield Book by Kenneth D. Ackerman
Click their covers below to see more.
