McKinley began his second term grateful that the nasty pace of the previous four years seemed to be slowing down. Subjects such as trade agreements, trust regulation, and the practicalities of building a canal across the isthmus of Central America now tussled for his attention. They were important, but nothing like the geopolitics that had consumed him the past four years. His presidency became much more like what he had envisioned when he first moved into the White House. He even found time to read S. Weir Mitchell’s Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker, a popular story of the American Revolution.
McKinley also began to plan the most extensive trip of his presidency, something of a victory lap celebrating his overseas achievements. Cuba was firmly under American control. Hawaii had been annexed. The Boxer Rebellion had been put down, America had established itself as a power in China, and it appeared that Taft was turning the Philippines into a peaceful colony.
McKinley’s journey out west was one that Hannibal would have approved of. Just as the Carthaginian drove elephants over the St. Bernard pass in the Alps, McKinley proposed to transport his entire cabinet on a journey skirting the outer edge of the country, traveling to Louisiana, California, and through the Northwest, and concluding on June 13, 1901, with a visit to the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo. Six weeks in all.
A number of cabinet ministers eventually managed to find excuses not to make the journey, yet it was still a spectacle when some forty-three officials, friends, and staff members settled into a special train on April 29, 1901, and pulled out of Washington.1 Ida McKinley was feeling unwell but brought along plenty of people to look after her, body and soul—her maid Clara, a favorite niece, Mary Barber, as well as her personal physician, Dr. Rixey, who had studied her case and, to the president’s approval, had cut down on the bromides that she had been receiving.
At each stop the entourage received an enthusiastic welcome, though none more lavish than the one provided in Los Angeles in the second week of May. There well-wishers threw a floral parade while McKinley’s carriage was pulled by half a dozen white horses. On one receiving stand, rose petals piled up ankle deep.2
Ida, however, was suffering from a pain in her hand. Before arriving in Los Angeles, the First Lady had developed a bone felon—a pocket of pus caused by an infection—on her forefinger, which Dr. Rixey tried to lance. It still bothered her on Friday when McKinley left for San Francisco, so much so that the presidential train had to be stopped for an hour while Dr. Rixey again attempted to treat the finger. By the time the group arrived at the Del Monte Hotel, Ida was decidedly unwell.3
At first, she did her best to keep up with her husband and accompanied him on trips around the Bay Area for a couple of days, but she quickly weakened. On Sunday, McKinley broke his own rule against travel on the Sabbath and took her to the home of H. T. Scott, head of the Union Iron Works. Scott had built the battleship USS Ohio, named after McKinley’s home state, and one of the planned highlights of the trip was to witness its maiden launch. Ida was given a comfortable bed and trained nurses. In an unintended comment on the quality of medical treatment at the time, a millionaire’s guest room was seen to offer better care than a hospital.
Yet Ida’s health continued to worsen, apparently from blood poisoning caused by one of the lancings, and she suffered at least one fit. For days she lived off beef broth and brandy and at times lost consciousness. On Wednesday, shortly before dawn, her pulse weakened and she fell into a stupor before heart stimulants were given. Those knowledgeable of her condition began to grow genuinely concerned, one telling The New York Times, “Mrs. McKinley is as sick as any woman I ever saw.”4 Across the street, in Lafayette Park, hushed crowds gathered to offer their support.5
Yet Ida once again managed to pull herself out of a dangerous condition, aided by heart stimulants and intravenous injections of salt. Although still considered critical, she began to speak and even smile. She was well enough, the president decided, for him to attend the launching of the Ohio.
Traveling to the shipyards in the tugboat Slocum, the president witnessed what The Washington Post called the most impressive seaborne event since the day George Dewey arrived on the Hudson River from the Philippines. Enthusiastic crowds gathered on wharves to watch the tug motor past. Sailors aboard warships in the harbor had decked out their vessels with signal flags from stem to stern. It was all framed by a view of the city of San Francisco, “a perfect mound of waving flags.” Aboard one troop transport, just returned from the Philippines, soldiers crowded the rails shouting and waving their hats while the band struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Beaming, McKinley waved a handkerchief in reply.6
Ida, however, remained very much on the president’s mind, despite the best efforts of his staff. Telephone connections were established at the dock and shipyards, enabling doctors to reach the president at any moment, other than when he was actually on the Slocum. He was so eager to return that, on the way back to the Scotts’, he leaped from the transport tug to the dock and nearly ran to a carriage that would carry him back to Ida. Though his wife was looking better, McKinley cut the trip short, canceling all the remaining dates save one. He would merely postpone his visit to the Pan-American Expo. Plans were made for him to attend the fair in September.7
Ida was still looking ill—her face thin and pale—on the sultry evening of July 5, 1901, when she and her husband boarded their private car on the seven forty-five Western Express for Canton and the start of a three-month holiday in their hometown. She had made marked progress from the worst of the trip to the West Coast, and it was hoped that relaxing among friends and cooler air would fully restore her.8
It was ostensibly a working vacation for the couple. McKinley would continue to guide affairs of state from his home library, which had now been turned into a small Oval Office. He brought some of his top staff with him, and a steady stream of visitors soon followed. Still, the pace of events slowed to a leisurely cadence. As much work as possible was handled by staff in Washington, and only matters requiring McKinley’s personal attention were sent to Canton.9
In Washington that summer, John Hay took on the heavy lifting, deep in the diplomacy needed to forge the missing link in McKinley’s trade route with the Far East—a canal across the isthmus of Central America.
A waterway linking the Pacific and Atlantic oceans had been an American dream since the days of the California gold rush, when eastern prospectors had bolted west. Rather than crossing the continent or sailing a schooner all the way around South America, many found the fastest route was to hop on a ship heading south but then cut westward across Nicaragua or Colombia by train—or even on foot—before catching another ship headed north.
Neither American investors nor the U.S. government, however, showed much practical interest in constructing a waterway, and it had been a Frenchman, Ferdinand de Lesseps, who first attempted to construct a passage across what is now Panama in 1880. For thirteen years, the French, confident in their abilities after constructing the Suez Canal, dug and dynamited a sea-level route before they were defeated by lack of technical expertise and malaria-infested jungles. Abandoning the project in 1893, they left behind their equipment, disappointed investors, and one giant hole in the ground.
The publication of Mahan’s classic Influence of Sea Power, however, revived U.S. interest in 1890. He described the construction of a canal as a catalyst for American expansion, and support had been building ever since. Of course, Theodore Roosevelt was keen for an American project as soon as he heard of it, and in 1897 wrote that the United States needed to get it started “at once.” The challenging voyage of the USS Oregon demonstrated most dramatically what canal proponents sought. In the weeks before the United States declared war on Spain, the ship had been ordered from its home port in Bremerton, Washington, to the waters of the Caribbean. Desperately needed in the fight against the Spanish, the ship required an astonishing two months to make the twelve-thousand-mile journey. Had a canal existed at the time, it would have cut the trip eight thousand miles shorter, to say nothing of avoiding the dangers of sailing around Cape Horn.10
As daunting as the engineering and financial challenges were, the biggest roadblock to getting started had been a diplomatic one. Almost half a century earlier the United States and Britain had signed the Clayton-Bulwer Treaty committing the two nations to joint control of any canal built across the isthmus.11 Though he would have preferred to spend the summer in cooler climes, Hay now was stuck in Washington, renegotiating a treaty acceptable to both the British and the Senate that would give the United States exclusive control over a canal.
Unencumbered with affairs of state for the first time since entering the White House, McKinley seemed determined to recapture his old life in Canton. He took great pride in his yard and enjoyed discussing it with the gardener. He also oversaw a remodeling project that included a pillared porte cochere that roofed the driveway on the north side and the construction of an octagonal gazebo that overlooked the lawn and garden. “I don’t suppose you can possibly appreciate how much it means to me to have a home of my own,” he proudly told one visitor.12
McKinley spent quiet evenings with Ida on the porch catching up with old friends, or simply shouting warm greetings at people passing by on the brick sidewalk that ran in front of his house. Ida, visitors said, hadn’t looked so good in years.13 In a first for the president—indeed the first for any president—McKinley rode in an automobile. He was out for a walk when an old friend, Zebulon Davis, happened by and offered to take him for a spin. After at first demurring, an uneasy McKinley climbed in and was seen gripping the door tightly as the machine wound through the streets of Canton. The president was wise to stay firmly in his seat as Davis, who manufactured cars, at one point was forced to quickly swerve to avoid a cyclist.14
As September approached, the White House finalized plans for the trip to the Pan-American Expo in Buffalo. There would be a relaxed train ride to Niagara Falls, a fireworks show on the evening of September 5, 1901, on the fairgrounds, a speech, and a brief meeting with the public. George Cortelyou, who had tried to remove a meet-and-greet on the sixth from the president’s schedule for security reasons, again tried to persuade him to call off the event, arguing that it would inevitably disappoint thousands of people who would not get a chance to meet him. “Well, they’ll know I tried, anyhow,” the president replied.
Worried about McKinley’s safety at the fair, Cortelyou telegrammed Buffalo to sort out security arrangements and received a reassuring update. The Buffalo chief of police had already been in touch with police in Washington. The normal Secret Service team was to be beefed up with city patrolmen, exposition guards, railroad detectives, and Pinkerton men, as well as with two extra Secret Service agents. Special police, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, would be stationed night and day at the Milburn House, where McKinley would be staying. The president’s carriage was always to be protected by a phalanx of soldiers and police.15 All seemed to be well in hand.