The First Assassin (26 page)

After walking about half a block, however, she had to stop because of her feet. She slipped into a narrow alleyway and sat down. A troubling thought came to her mind: what if the wagon driver really wanted her caught? Perhaps he had dropped her off only to inform the local authorities of her presence. Why would he let her go only to see her captured? It made no sense. Portia told herself not to panic. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

Then she remembered the words to a song she had known for years. It was a secret song, one that slaves sang when only slaves were present—and never in the fields where a white person might overhear.

This was the song the wagon driver had hummed. She got up and started walking again. This time she hummed it too.

When Rook arrived at the Winder Building, a soldier posted outside said the general was in the big room near the back of the building. Normally they met in Scott’s office—this other place was reserved for larger groups, such as the general’s whole senior staff. Rook had attended a few of these gatherings, but he had not heard about this one. It must have been called at the last minute. Was there news of war?

Officers filled the room. Rook noticed that Scott had dressed himself in full regalia, the way he did when he had a meeting with the president. The colonel wondered why. Lincoln wasn’t here. Then he saw a man with wavy hair and a sharply angled nose that looked almost like a snout. It was William Seward, the secretary of state—the man who nearly had received the Republican nomination for president the previous year. If Lincoln had not grabbed it from him, in fact, Seward probably would be president today. Some people said Seward was the real leader of the administration. Others believed he was ferociously jealous of Lincoln.

Rook ignored the officers who milled around and went straight for a chair at the large table. A moment later, Scott’s booming voice interrupted all conversation.

“Please be seated, gentlemen. Let’s get started.”

Everyone found a chair.

“You have probably noticed that we are joined today by a distinguished guest,” said Scott. “Welcome, Secretary Seward.” The general bowed his head slightly, and men grunted greetings from around the table.

“Thank you very much, General Scott,” said Seward. “This is a difficult moment for our country, but we in the administration are comforted to know that the protection of the capital and the president are in your capable hands.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” replied Scott. “Let us proceed now to our reports. Where’s General Johnston?”

Heads bobbed around the room. Quartermaster General Joseph E. Johnston should have been at the table, but he was missing. It did not take much thinking to realize why: he was a Virginian and believed to hold secessionist sympathies.

“Unfortunate, but not unexpected,” mumbled Scott. The big general turned to his assistant, Colonel Locke. “When this meeting is concluded, find out where Johnston is and whether he has resigned.”

Locke scribbled a note to himself, and Scott continued. He spent the next several minutes describing recent events. It was one alarming piece of news after another. On Friday, federal troops passing through Baltimore on their way to Washington had sparked a riot. It was not clear who fired first. Either way, the results were grim: thirteen people killed, including four soldiers.

Rook leaned over to the captain beside him. “Nobody died at Sumter,” he whispered. “If there’s a war, then these men in Baltimore are its first casualties.”

The next day—yesterday—Baltimore’s rioters cut telegraph lines and destroyed railroad tracks coming into the city from Pennsylvania. This halted Washington’s mail and newspaper deliveries from the North. Trains continued to run irregularly from Washington to Baltimore, and they were packed with people trying to escape from the capital. Even more left by foot or carriage. The slow exodus of recent weeks was picking up. And word had come just hours before the meeting that the commandant at the Norfolk navy yard had ordered his garrison burned, his cannon spiked, and most of his ships scuttled. It was one defeat after another—first Sumter, then Harper’s Ferry, and now the clash in Baltimore and the capitulation at Norfolk. Rook worried that things would get worse before they got better.

“Let us proceed with the business at hand,” said Scott.

“We all know what happened in Baltimore on Friday, but today we have with us Colonel Edward F. Jones of the Sixth Massachusetts. His men are bunking in the Senate. He will give us a full report of what transpired.”

A lanky colonel stood. He described arriving in Baltimore by train and drawing a crowd as his men marched across the city. At first, agitators shouted insults. Then they began hurling bricks and stones. The troops kept their composure but grew aggravated. Finally, a shot went off—almost certainly from the mob and possibly from a musket that was stolen from one of the soldiers after he was hit in the face with a rock. “I have four dead soldiers and more than thirty injured to prove that our harassers were armed and willing to open fire,” said Jones. “We had no choice but to fire back.” They fought their way to the depot, boarded a train, and made it to Washington.

Seward stood up. “You fought bravely and well, Colonel,” he said. “On behalf of the government, let me say that we are all grateful for your sacrifice.”

Rook did everything he could to keep from rolling his eyes. Seward might be a cabinet secretary, but at heart he was a politician. Like so many other politicians, he enjoyed hearing himself speak and ingratiating himself to his listeners. He looked at soldiers, but he did not see warriors. He saw voters. Even so, Rook began to think that Seward’s presence today might prove useful.

“We are under siege and isolated, gentlemen,” said Scott.

“We are all that stands between the preservation of the Union and its ruin. Yet we do not possess an adequate force to defend Washington from an attack of any significance.”

“Will reinforcements come?” asked Seward.

“The New York Seventh is supposedly on the way. It cannot get here soon enough.”

Scott rattled off a series of orders. He told the officers already in charge of organizing armed citizen groups and marshaling provisions to redouble their efforts. He demanded stronger picket lines around the perimeter of the city and better intelligence on military activity in Maryland and Virginia. He insisted that sandbags be placed around the Treasury Department—if war came to the streets of Washington, it would become a military headquarters and a refuge for the president. The general reviewed evacuation procedures, including a scheme to escort the president from Washington if the city’s capture was imminent. He wanted a plan for everything and gave everybody something to do. Rook was responsible for monitoring the bridges and locating facilities for additional soldiers, should they ever come.

“Are there any questions?” asked Scott.

When nobody had any, Rook spoke. “General,” he said. “I might make a comment.”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Last Friday’s incident demonstrates the wisdom of President Lincoln’s decision to pass through Baltimore in the middle of the night rather than risk the fury of a mob. He has been greatly criticized for it, even by his friends and allies. It is said that he regrets having done it. Now we have fatal evidence showing that he was sensible to have been cautious.”

Seward leaned forward in his chair, which Rook viewed as an encouraging sign. Perhaps the secretary’s presence would force Scott to make a concession.

“We also have a better understanding of the enemy’s level of commitment and resourcefulness—and the knowledge that we have perhaps underestimated it,” continued Rook. “We’re responding effectively to the external threat. What about the internal threat? We know this city is full of secessionists—”

Scott interrupted. “What are you driving at, Colonel?”

“We can surround the Treasury with a wall of sandbags soaring above our heads, and it won’t do any good if a handful of secessionist vigilantes storm the president’s mansion. At the very least, we must improve our surveillance of likely instigators.”

A few heads nodded in agreement. An equal number did not move at all. Colonel Locke scoffed. Seward narrowed his eyes.

“I thought we had already discussed this matter,” said Scott. “Our focus now is on military operations. Sneaking and snooping won’t do us any good when Lee comes marching into northern Virginia at the head of an army.”

Seward raised his hand, stopping Scott’s commentary. “How serious is this problem, Colonel?”

“I would definitely call it serious—and made more so by a failure to recognize its potential. We just learned a painful lesson in Baltimore about not appreciating the lengths to which some people will go in opposing our aims. We must avoid making the same mistake here.”

Scott could not restrain himself any longer. “Mr. Secretary, you must understand that this colonel”—he emphasized the rank, as if to show it compared poorly against his own—“is making an old argument. We’ve gone over this many times before, and still he persists. Frankly, Colonel, it is beginning to smack of insubordination—and your desperate attempt to show off in front of the secretary here is embarrassing to me and all the other officers sitting around this table. You are now in charge of sandbagging the Treasury Department. You will devote yourself to this project exclusively. Others will assume your previous responsibilities.”

The meeting went on for another half hour. The only part Rook would remember was how Locke smirked and Seward stared for the rest of it.

MONDAY, APRIL 22, 1861

Portia opened her eyes to a small room she did not recognize. Light seeped in from a half-closed doorway, revealing white walls, a low ceiling, and not much else. She was lying on a hard bed. It made her wonder where her own bed was and why she was not in it. The answers did not come quickly to her groggy mind.

She remembered lumbering down a city street in Charleston. The need to rest her aching feet overcame her every block or two. Between her hampered gait and the frequent stops, it had taken half the night.

The street finally ended where the waves lapped against a seawall. When she turned around to look at the way she had come, Portia recognized that she was in the Battery. Water bounded it on two sides. Houses lined the rest of the park. They were big homes with white columns and cast-iron balconies. Packing them together so tightly made them look smaller than they really were, but Portia knew they sprawled on the inside. Most were three stories high. The Bennett home was on the opposite side, its ground floor lit by gaslight and visible through the trees. Nelly lived next door.

It was too late to knock, not that she would have tried it, even in daylight. What if Nelly had left for a plantation? The thought sent a shiver through Portia. Nelly was supposed to spend all her time in Charleston. But things could have changed. If she was gone, Portia did not know what she would do.

No lights shone through the mansion’s windows. Portia entered an alley. There was a single door in the rear of Nelly’s house. She thought about trying the handle. Instead, she sat down and rubbed her feet. The ache receded after a few minutes. Portia was not sure what to do next. It was easy to do nothing at all. She was exhausted. Her eyes began to droop. She fought to keep them open but felt herself losing the battle. Part of her actually wanted to lose it. A comforting blackness washed over her.

That was the last thing she remembered before she woke. Suddenly, a heavyset woman walked through the door. Even from the dim glow from the hallway, Portia recognized Nelly.

“You’re awake,” said Nelly. She reached for a damp rag.

“Lemme wipe this grime off your face, child. It looks like you ain’t been clean in days.” She rubbed lightly at first, then dipped the rag into a bucket by the side of the bed and scrubbed a bit harder.

“You’re a pretty young thing,” she said. “But you’re feelin’ a little cold. I’m gonna get you one more blanket.” She twisted around and called out of the room, “Benjamin! Gimme that green blanket!” Then she turned back to Portia and gave her a warm smile. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

“Do you remember me?” asked Portia.

“I remember a cute little girl from the winter season eight or nine years ago. I know how you’ve grown because your grandfather keeps tellin’ me about you—or at least he answers all the questions I ask. I’ve known that man for years, and you’re the first and only grandchild of his that I’ve met. Of course, I can’t see people in my own family as much as I’d like. Anyway, I know Lucius has a lotta kin. You’re just the only one who has been this way before.”

“How did I get here?”

“I can’t answer that question, honey,” said Nelly. She put down the washcloth and started to fuss with Portia’s hair. “I found you sleepin’ by the back door, right after sunrise. I spotted you through a window and walked outside to kick you awake. We don’t want no vagrants around here. But somethin’ about you looked familiar. The shape of your face is the same as your grandfather’s. I also knew it was you because years ago I saw the woman inside the girl. So I pulled you in here and set you down on this bed. It’s a good thing Mr. Jenkins ain’t around. He wouldn’t lemme skip all this work and take care of you. He’d insist that you go next door to the Bennett place, even though I would tell him there’s nobody there right now. Of course, the fact that nobody’s next door makes me wonder what you’re doin’ in these parts.”

Benjamin walked into the room just as Nelly quit talking. He was a skinny boy of perhaps eight years. He carried a green blanket folded over both arms and gave it to Nelly. “Thank you, Benjamin,” she said as she took it and began spreading it on top of Portia. “This is my own grandson,” said Nelly. “Mr. Jenkins is lettin’ him stay with me through the summer.”

It took Portia all this time to absorb the question Nelly had asked a moment earlier. What was she doing here? Then the reason why struck her. She bolted upright, tossing off the blanket and shoving her hand into a pocket. Nothing was there. She checked another pocket and found what she was looking for.

“My goodness, girl, somethin’ has gotten into you,” said Nelly. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“It’s nothin’.”

“It’s somethin’, all right. You don’t gotta tell me. I understand secrets. Just lemme peek.”

“Sorry, Nelly. I’m not tryin’ to hide nothin’ from you. In fact, it’s you I been lookin’ for. My grandfather sent me. He said you would help.”

“Helpin’ the granddaughter of Lucius. Now that’s somethin’ I would gladly do. Your grandfather is a good man. There ain’t a thing I wouldn’t do for him.”

“He said you can help me get to the North. He said you knew people here in Charleston who can do that.”

Nelly stood up. She looked at Benjamin as if she were about to dismiss the boy because of the conversation’s direction. Before she could do anything, though, Portia spoke up.

“I’ve run away, Nelly. I left the farm and came here. I gotta get to the North.”

“We all wanna do that, honey, every one of us slaves.”

“This ain’t the same thing. There’s somethin’ I need to take there—somethin’ that will help all the slaves.”

“You gonna tell me what it is?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s somethin’ my grandfather gimme. He says I gotta hand it to Abe Lincoln. He said you could help me do that.”

“You’re in Charleston, child, and Washington is a long way off. We slaves can’t just buy tickets and hop on board the next boat.”

“That’s why I need your help. You know how it can be done, don’t you? You know how I can get to Washington. My grandfather said you did.”

Nelly did not reply. She crossed her arms and stared at her grandson. The boy had been riveted to their conversation, his head flicking back and forth between Portia and Nelly as they spoke.

“Do you really think you’re gonna meet Abe Lincoln?”

“I gotta. Please help me. It’s about our freedom—and his freedom too, Nelly.” She pointed to Benjamin.

“Everybody says he’s gonna free the slaves. But you’re askin’ for a whole lot, maybe even a miracle.”

“There won’t be no miracles if you don’t help me.”

“I can’t promise nothin’. If somethin’ went wrong, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to look at your grandfather again.”

“He sent me to you. He would say it’s better to try and fail than not to try at all.”

Nelly thought it over. “When your grandfather said I knew people, he spoke the truth. I know some people right here in Charleston who hate slavery, who would like to see all the slaves have their liberty—and I’m not talkin’ about no colored folks. There’s some white folks who are real quiet about it. But I know how to get to them. Maybe there’s somethin’ we can do.”

“Thanks, Nelly. That’s what my grandfather wants.”

“If I had known your grandfather was gonna send me one of his favorite grandchildren, I never would have said nothing to him. This ain’t a burden I wanted. There’s a good chance this ain’t gonna work, Portia.”

“It’s gotta work. If I’m gonna be punished for runnin’, I want to be caught goin’ north, not by givin’ up.”

Nelly said nothing for a few moments. She barely even moved. Benjamin’s head swiveled between the two women. Portia wondered how much of this he really understood.

Nelly finally broke her silence. “Benjamin, do you remember that store we been walkin’ by, where they take the pictures of people and put them in the front window?”

The boy nodded.

“I want you to run over there right now. Find the owner. Tell him I have an extra-special package for him. He’ll know what it means. His name is Mr. Leery.”

After visiting Clark in the recesses of the Treasury Department’s basement, Rook actually looked forward to supervising the sandbagging of the building’s exterior. It was a lonely assignment for the corporal. Davis and the others still refused to talk. The good news was that nobody had come near Clark or the prisoners. They were secure, at least for the time being.

Outside, Rook spent a few minutes watching a crew of men pile sandbags along Fifteenth Street. Their wall stood at three feet and was growing, layer by layer. By the end of the day, they would have a rudimentary barricade.

Up the street, Rook spotted Springfield standing by the State Department. He had no idea whether the sergeant had been there for long, but Springfield clearly wanted to talk to him and had the good sense not to approach. The last thing either of them needed was for Springfield to be seen in plain clothes doing something other than piling sandbags.

Rook glanced at his crew of men and decided they could spare him for a few minutes. A wagon loaded with more sandbags had just arrived. It was enough to keep them busy for a little longer.

A few minutes later, Rook and Springfield were sitting beside each other on a bench in Lafayette Park.

“I didn’t want to approach you while you were sandbagging,” said Springfield. “I heard what happened at the meeting.”

“I got sandbagged all right.”

“It’s a shame, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it. Technically, as one of my men, you’re supposed to be over here piling bags too. But I don’t care what Scott thinks. I want you to keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you have for me?”

“I started intercepting Grenier’s mail. One letter caught my eye because of who sent it.”

Springfield removed a letter from his pocket and gave it to Rook—it was the April 19 letter describing the loss of Lucius, signed by Langston Bennett. Rook skimmed it.

“I knew Bennett in Mexico,” said Rook. “I didn’t know him personally, but by reputation. He was an officer during the war. He lost a leg and returned home. I haven’t heard his name in ages.”

“It comes from South Carolina.”

“Yes, that’s where I believe he was from. That’s all?”

“He must be a secessionist.”

For a moment Rook thought that perhaps Scott had a point after all. It looked like a harmless piece of mail. Were they spending too much time obsessing over conspiracies?

“I don’t think there’s much to it,” said Rook.

Springfield must have had the same thought. “I’ll let it go through,” he said.

“Anything else, Sergeant?”

“No, sir.”

“What about that visitor she had?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“You will soon. I’ve got a plan to learn more about him.”

It was late afternoon when Mazorca returned to his room at the boardinghouse. He had risen before dawn to examine the bridges leaving Washington, one by one. Originally he had planned to rent a horse for the day, but with so many the people leaving the city following the catastrophe in Baltimore, horses were hard to come by and exorbitantly priced. He had the money for it but did not want to be seen as having the money for it. So he walked. There were four bridges in all, and Mazorca wanted to see how long they were, how well they were guarded, and what the other side of the river looked like. He did not actually cross any of them, because turning around and heading right back would draw notice, especially if the sentries at one bridge were to compare notes with the sentries at another.

First he went all the way to the Chain Bridge, to the west. Then he proceeded eastward, observing the bridge in Georgetown and the Long Bridge south of downtown. The last bridge, spanning the east branch of the Potomac, interested him the most. It was the only one leading into Maryland. The other side of the river was technically a part of the District, but Maryland lay just beyond, across an invisible line in what appeared to be sparsely populated countryside. Soldiers at the other three bridges were on the lookout for military activity in Virginia, and there were enough of them posted at each to hold off an advancing column until reinforcements could arrive. The last bridge, however, was different. An attack from Maryland wouldn’t come from across the bridge. There were few guards. Mazorca liked what he saw.

Back in his room, Mazorca opened his trunk and removed a pile of maps. He searched through the small stack until he found the one he wanted. It was of southern Maryland. He unfolded it on the floor. A few small towns were sprinkled around the region, though for the most part it seemed to be a mixture of rural farmland and swampy wilderness. Coves, creeks, and inlets pockmarked the Potomac. It looked perfect.

Mazorca knew from experience that the information contained on maps often required verification. There was a big difference between studying an area on paper and visiting it in person. Doing it properly, he realized, would require a horse, even at some expense.

But that was a problem for another day, and this one was coming to an end. He was happy with what he had learned. He was one step closer to an escape plan. Now he needed to think about a plan that would make his escape necessary.

He had purchased a copy of the
Evening Star
on his way back from the bridge. The small type on its front page described the news and other events, but his eye drifted over to the right-hand columns, full of little advertisements. One in particular caught his eye. It was for French & Richstein, a bookstore at 278 Pennsylvania Avenue. The proprietors proudly announced the arrival of “the first elegant household edition” of
The Pickwick Papers
, by Charles Dickens.

Mazorca had heard of the popular British author. He decided to buy a copy of this new book. But he had no intention of reading it.

James Leery had not moved to Charleston specifically because he wanted to free its slaves. He had arrived there from New York in 1859 to open a photography studio. After working as an apprentice for three years in his native city, he wanted to succeed on his own. But the picture business was fierce, and he feared failure. Then his father, an indulgent man who supported his son’s fascination with this newfangled technology, made a vital connection.