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A Chronicle of the American Whirlwind
The Legacy of President James Garfield


The Baltimore and Potomac Rail Station in Washington, D.C.

I: Ad Multos Annos!

The scorching summer heat dawned on Washington. Commuters, rail-goers and the like shuffled all through and around the Baltimore and Potomac not dissimilar to rats scurrying about an enclosed maze. Among the bustle of the morning sat a flustered, out of sorts man by the name of John Haverstraw. By a run of misfortune, Haverstraw boarded an incorrect line in Philadelphia and found himself trapped for an estimated six hours in the dismal hotbox of D.C. He was due to present his findings at a scientific exhibition at Albany Medical: Now, as his dim luck would have it, a forgone dream. He reflected on his foolishness, muttering obscenities to himself as he crumpled and tossed his prepared notes onto the station floor.

Finding himself with time to kill, Haverstraw stood and wandered aimlessly, careful not to collide with the cascade of bodies present at his platform. The wailing of children and tepid arguments of morning drunkards were at last silenced by the roar of locomotive engines in approach of the station. The crowds seemed to awaken from a trance and gradually wane from his platform. Having read the daily newsprint once or twice over, Dr. Haverstraw recalled that a federal entourage was scheduled to leave Washington this morning – the general populous must be moving in his direction.

Haverstraw distrusted those dealing in the sin of politics. "Any honest goodwill in our government died with Abraham Lincoln,” he would routinely quip to his colleagues. He wrote in a personal memoir, “I know not if the men in Washington care to know the fact of death and mistreatment in this war. [Walt] Whitman’s report ought to be required literature for office-seekers in the coming decades.” Having been too young to assist personally in the War Between the States, the doctor began his road to medicine with intensive study of Medical Director Jonathan Letterman’s work, then on to Babington, followed thereafter by Robert Koch. Haverstraw admired these learned men of science, hopeful that he may soon secure a professorship to support his own research.

The doctor moved with the crowd and, at last, caught a glimpse of the entourage. The fellow walking briskly with the sunken eyes and great nose, he recognized, that must be the State Secretary, James Blaine. He matched the reported description to the letter. As Blaine stepped ahead, Haverstraw could not help but feel overcome with curiosity as he spotted the top of the president’s balding head for the briefest of moments. Just then, a deafening clap of thunder penetrated the air. Screaming. One yelp above the others. “My God, what is that?” Another clap.

Seconds seemed to move like hours. Onlookers were stunned and distraught at the sight of the events unfolding before them. The president collapsed on the ground. John Haverstraw pushed aside those blocking his path and hurried his way to the body of the fallen leader. President Garfield remained conscious on the ground with a look of disdained shock toward the presumed direction of perpetrator. Haverstraw looked at the president, then Blaine, “Mr. President, if you will, my name is John - I’m a practiced physician.” Garfield exhaustingly groaned, “Get on with it.” Blaine overheard the command and cautiously allowed the stranger to move ahead. The men, with assistance, carried the president to an upper floor in the rail station.

As the haphazard team laid the ailing president on a makeshift medical bed for transport, the doctor, faintly, could overhear the words of a madman that would forever haunt his dreams. “I am a Stalwart of the Stalwarts!”
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