prestigious hotel, and need not concern himself about the bill.
As Guiteau dressed for the day in his new, well-appointed room, Mrs. Grant, the owner of his previous boardinghouse, was desperately trying to track him down. For weeks, Guiteau had met her requests for payment with excuses and promises. “I can’t do anything for you to-day, but I certainly will in a day or two,” he had written to her two days earlier. “Please do not mention this to any one, as it will do me harm, as I will settle in a day or two. You can depend on this.” The next day, Mrs. Grant had found his room empty and his bag gone. She refused, however, to admit defeat. In fact, she had placed an advertisement in the Daily Post that was to appear that day: “WANTED: Charles Guiteau, of Illinois, who gives the President and Secretary Blaine as reference, to call at 924 14th St., and pay his board bill.”
Unaware and unconcerned about Mrs. Grant’s advertisement, and filled with a satisfying sense of his own importance that day, Guiteau allowed himself a leisurely morning. It was too early for breakfast, so he walked to Lafayette Park as he had done nearly every day for the past four months. He rested, read the paper, and “enjoyed the beautiful morning air.” At eight, he returned to the Riggs House and had a large meal. “I ate well,” he would later say, “and felt well in body and mind.”
After breakfast, Guiteau returned to his room to retrieve a few items. Over the past few weeks, as he prepared to assassinate the president, he had written a series of letters that he took great satisfaction in knowing would be published to wide readership. One of those letters, however, he had addressed to just one man—General William Tecumseh Sherman. Scrawled on the back of a telegraph sheet, it read:
To General Sherman:
I have just shot the President.
I shot him several times, as I wished him to go as easily as possible.
His death was a political necessity.
I am a lawyer, theologian, and politician.
I am a Stalwart of the Stalwarts.
I was with Gen Grant, and the rest of our men in New York during the canvas.
I am going to the jail.
Please order out your troops, and take possession of the jail at once.
Charles Guiteau
Folding the letters into an envelope, Guiteau put them with his edited copy of The Truth. To the cover of his book, he attached a note to the New York Herald. “You can print this entire book, if you wish to,” it read. “I would suggest that it be printed in sections, i.e., one or two sections a day.… I intend to have it handsomely printed by some first-class New York publisher, but the Herald can have the first chance at it.”
There was one last letter, which Guiteau had written just that morning and now tucked safely into his shirt pocket. Addressed to the White House, it attempted to explain what he was about to do. “The President’s tragic death was a sad necessity, but it will unite the Republican party and save the Republic. Life is a fleeting dream, and it matters little when one goes,” he wrote. “I presume the President was a Christian and that he will be happier in Paradise than here.”
His affairs in order, Guiteau was finally ready to leave. He was wearing a dark suit with a “nice, clean shirt,” and he looked, he was confident, “like a gentleman.” Before stepping out the door, he picked up his revolver, carefully wrapped it in paper, and slid it into his hip pocket.
Although he had taken his time that morning, Guiteau arrived at the Baltimore and Potomac station at Sixth and B Streets half an hour before Garfield. He decided to use the time to complete a few last tasks. Aware that he would soon be the focus of great attention, and concerned that his shoes looked a little dusty, he had them brushed and blacked. Then he approached a line of hack drivers outside the station. Thinking it best to arrange for a ride to the jail ahead of time, in case there was any danger to him personally, he asked one driver what he would charge to take him to the Congressional Cemetery, which was near the prison. “Well, I will take you out there for $2,” the driver answered. Guiteau, who did not have two dollars but did not plan to pay for the ride anyway,