But it wasn’t a miss, not exactly. His heart hadn’t been in the shot. President Lincoln was unarmed. He wore no uniform. His stovepipe hat stuck up above the parapet, an unmistakable target. He stood still as a post, staring straight toward the Confederate position. The man next to him squinted over the sights of a musket, and Kenan’s shot killed him. He had felt the arc of his bullet flying into the soldier’s face as if it were on a string. The president had never even ducked.

If only Lincoln had borrowed a rifle, taken a sporting potshot at the advancing skirmishers.

There was a lot to remember about those days, a lot to keep track of. Memories accumulated weight with the years. Things kept adding on. A man had to be careful to keep his center, remember what he stood for. He had missed, but he had not dishonored himself. Leave that to assassins like John Wilkes Booth. A man should face his enemy, take his chances.

Kenan didn’t want to be alone tonight. What if the dream came back? If Jenks could stay awhile, they could have another cigar.

“Got to be going, Captain,” Sam said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Kenan nodded and shuffled toward the door. When he opened it to let Sam out, the night rushed in cool and full of sound. Things were happening out there, he knew. Men were meddling with the order. His boy was in Mexico building a dam. In the barn behind the armory, the gun was waiting, cool and silent, the ugliest open secret in town.

He poured himself another whiskey and sat up till the windows went light, listening to the clamor of the empty house, waiting for his wife to come home. At dawn, he slept and dreamed of Mexico, a chatter of voices in Spanish, an ocean breeze, horses cantering in the surf, the tropical sun warm on his weary face.

Walker Taylor took the block and a half to Third Street in long strides. He turned north another two blocks to First Presbyterian Church. With a key, he let himself in a back door, leaving it unlocked behind him. When he lectured Sunday school in the community hall of this church, as many as a hundred people would gather to listen. Boys and girls, but also full-grown men. Rough men. He could talk to them all.

Here was the place he had started his Boys Brigade—saving bad boys from falling into the gutter. Every July, he took them to Camp George, at the mouth of the river, near Southport. Only the boys who attended four weeks of lessons in a row were allowed to go. The boys adored him. They slept in tents and fished off the beach and told stories around driftwood campfires. They came home lean and brown, their little souls sturdier. He did it for them. They were his mission.