Garfield, who just months earlier had been put in office as a result of political compromise, was suddenly a leader of enormous stature.
The nation prayed that Garfield might live—and he did, though he never recovered. Dwindling from two hundred pounds down to a hundred and twenty, President Garfield died in bed two months later.
At the time, some said God was judging the nation. Others said Guiteau was part of a grand, power-grabbing plot.
The assassin Guiteau never hid the truth: He told them he was trying to prevent another civil war. No one believed him.
But he was right—and he said it best: “God makes no blunders… He selects the right man every time for the right place; and in this He always successfully checkmates the Devil’s moves.”
John Wilkes Booth had done his job as the Knight of Spades. And now the Knight of Diamonds had completed his task.
11
Today
Washington, D.C.
T oday was a perfect day to kill a President.
The Knight knew it as he stood in the cold on the corner of 16th and P Streets, ignoring the passing cars of early commuters and staring at the wooden double doors of his newest destination, the massive Neo-Gothic castle known as Foundry United Methodist Church. This would go better than the mess last night at St. John’s.
Without a doubt, he could’ve waited—could’ve pushed it back a day… but now… with Beecher already involved… No. History had already been written. It couldn’t be changed.
President Garfield was shot at exactly 9:25 a.m.
The Knight glanced down at his watch. Less than an hour to go.
That’s how it was written.
That’s how it had to end.
Diagonally across the street, a lanky black man in a puffy black-and-red winter coat approached the huge 1904 granite building with its limestone trim and wood-framed windows. At the front door, he pulled out a set of keys. Church custodian, right on time.
Twirling a sucking candy around his tongue, the Knight watched as the custodian disappeared through the right-hand door just like he did every morning. It’d take him at least ten minutes to enter the PIN code, shut off the alarm, and walk through the building, turning on the lights. Otherwise, Foundry Church was now open.
Walking calmly across the street, the Knight couldn’t help but appreciate his current location. By definition, a foundry is a factory for casting metal, which is exactly what Henry Foxall was doing when he built cannons and guns for the U.S. government in the early 1800s. But it wasn’t until the War of 1812 that Foxall had his moment with God. As the British were burning the White House, the rumor was that their next target was Foxall’s munitions factory. So Foxall made a vow that day: If God would spare his operations, Foxall would build something in God’s honor.
That night, a violent thunderstorm appeared from nowhere, stopping the British from advancing any farther. Two years later, Foundry Church was born.
Over the years, it became the place where FDR took Winston Churchill for Christmas services in 1941, and later it was the Methodist home for Bill Clinton when he was President. But to this day, its greatest role was as the true church of Abraham Lincoln.
Since St. John’s was right across the street from the White House, Lincoln used to duck into it for quick prayers. But it was the Foundry, straight up 16th Street, one mile from the White House, where Lincoln became an official church director.
The Knight liked that. God’s message couldn’t be clearer.
Climbing the concrete steps outside, the Knight reached for the front door, but as he gave it a tug, a burning bolt of pain seized his right shoulder. His newest tattoo was still sensitive, and unlike the small spade and the JWB initials, for John Wilkes Booth, that was on the web of his hand, the marking on his shoulder—the one worn by the second Knight, the assassin Charles Guiteau—was far more complex: the shield, plus the fabled bird… and of course the red
The nation prayed that Garfield might live—and he did, though he never recovered. Dwindling from two hundred pounds down to a hundred and twenty, President Garfield died in bed two months later.
At the time, some said God was judging the nation. Others said Guiteau was part of a grand, power-grabbing plot.
The assassin Guiteau never hid the truth: He told them he was trying to prevent another civil war. No one believed him.
But he was right—and he said it best: “God makes no blunders… He selects the right man every time for the right place; and in this He always successfully checkmates the Devil’s moves.”
John Wilkes Booth had done his job as the Knight of Spades. And now the Knight of Diamonds had completed his task.
11
Today
Washington, D.C.
T oday was a perfect day to kill a President.
The Knight knew it as he stood in the cold on the corner of 16th and P Streets, ignoring the passing cars of early commuters and staring at the wooden double doors of his newest destination, the massive Neo-Gothic castle known as Foundry United Methodist Church. This would go better than the mess last night at St. John’s.
Without a doubt, he could’ve waited—could’ve pushed it back a day… but now… with Beecher already involved… No. History had already been written. It couldn’t be changed.
President Garfield was shot at exactly 9:25 a.m.
The Knight glanced down at his watch. Less than an hour to go.
That’s how it was written.
That’s how it had to end.
Diagonally across the street, a lanky black man in a puffy black-and-red winter coat approached the huge 1904 granite building with its limestone trim and wood-framed windows. At the front door, he pulled out a set of keys. Church custodian, right on time.
Twirling a sucking candy around his tongue, the Knight watched as the custodian disappeared through the right-hand door just like he did every morning. It’d take him at least ten minutes to enter the PIN code, shut off the alarm, and walk through the building, turning on the lights. Otherwise, Foundry Church was now open.
Walking calmly across the street, the Knight couldn’t help but appreciate his current location. By definition, a foundry is a factory for casting metal, which is exactly what Henry Foxall was doing when he built cannons and guns for the U.S. government in the early 1800s. But it wasn’t until the War of 1812 that Foxall had his moment with God. As the British were burning the White House, the rumor was that their next target was Foxall’s munitions factory. So Foxall made a vow that day: If God would spare his operations, Foxall would build something in God’s honor.
That night, a violent thunderstorm appeared from nowhere, stopping the British from advancing any farther. Two years later, Foundry Church was born.
Over the years, it became the place where FDR took Winston Churchill for Christmas services in 1941, and later it was the Methodist home for Bill Clinton when he was President. But to this day, its greatest role was as the true church of Abraham Lincoln.
Since St. John’s was right across the street from the White House, Lincoln used to duck into it for quick prayers. But it was the Foundry, straight up 16th Street, one mile from the White House, where Lincoln became an official church director.
The Knight liked that. God’s message couldn’t be clearer.
Climbing the concrete steps outside, the Knight reached for the front door, but as he gave it a tug, a burning bolt of pain seized his right shoulder. His newest tattoo was still sensitive, and unlike the small spade and the JWB initials, for John Wilkes Booth, that was on the web of his hand, the marking on his shoulder—the one worn by the second Knight, the assassin Charles Guiteau—was far more complex: the shield, plus the fabled bird… and of course the red
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