Not once was he given a pass to visit his mother, who still lived on the Bennett farm. Slaves who had close kin nearby routinely earned this privilege. Lucius thought about running away, but he was kept in such a state of exhaustion and pain that he did not consider himself capable. He figured he would be caught and beaten worse than ever before. Was it really worth going on this way?
Lucius decided it was not. He resolved to end it all. One day, he positioned himself alone in the fields, away from where the other slaves were working. It was sure to attract the attention of an overseer. By the middle of the morning, it had. One of them started walking in his direction. Lucius thrust his hand into an overgrown patch of weeds, and his fingers grasped the handle of a butcher knife he had stashed there. As the man approached, Lucius thought to himself, This is going to be easy.
The overseer stopped about twenty feet away from where Lucius crouched. Instead of hurling insults at the slave and demanding that he move into the other field, he just stood there for a moment. He was not even holding his whip. This confused Lucius.
“If you think I wanna beat the life out of you, boy,” sneered the overseer, “you’d be right.”
Lucius tightened his grip on the knife. Just take a few steps this way, he thought. The overseer needed to come a little closer before Lucius could pounce.
“But I’m not gonna,” said the overseer. “It’s your lucky day, boy. Follow me.”
He turned around and started walking to the manor. His back was to Lucius. He seemed completely unaware that the slave presented any kind of threat. Perhaps this was the time to strike. But now Lucius was curious. He looked down at the knife. It will cut just as well tomorrow, he thought. He hid it and followed the man whose life he had spared.
A few minutes later, he stood in front of the manor. The overseer told him that he had been sold.
“You’re going back to Bennett’s,” said the overseer. “I think you’re worthless, but they must want you bad. I hear you fetched a high price. They must wanna rough you up too—when you came over here a few years back, old Mr. Bennett insisted that we beat you as much as we pleased and then some.”
The overseer said all this with a smile on his face. Lucius hated him for that. For a fleeting moment, he wished he still had the knife in his hand. “Here’s a pass to their place. You have to be there by sundown. You know the way,” said the overseer. “Now get out of my sight!”
Lucius collected a few belongings. Then he walked back to the home he had not seen for years. That evening, as he reacquainted himself with familiar faces that had grown several years older, he learned the news: Richard Bennett had died two weeks earlier. His son Langston was running the plantation.
These memories flashed through Lucius’s mind as he followed Tucker Hughes up the stairs. He was determined to catch the younger man.
Bennett had treated Lucius very well as the years passed into decades. He had let Lucius start a family, gave him a prestigious job inside the plantation house, and now rarely traveled anywhere without his favorite servant. Lucius once heard it said that the art of being a slave is to rule one’s master. He knew that nobody ruled Bennett, but he also believed that he had achieved a position of reasonable comfort. He doubted that someone who was not white could have a better life in the South. At the same time, he privately shared Nelly’s hope that his whole race might be free one day. He wanted that for his grandchildren more than himself. He never said such a thing, of course. Not even to Nelly.
The urgency of the moment again intruded on these thoughts. Hughes was about to enter the study.
“Please, Mr. Hughes! Let me!” said Lucius.
Hughes looked up irritably but took a step back. Lucius nodded to him—a thank-you that was not heartfelt—and opened the door. Inside, Bennett looked up. Piles of books and newspapers cluttered the room. Both Lucius and Hughes knew that Bennett was a voracious reader. He read almost every word in every issue of the Charleston Mercury and De Bow’s Review plus several other periodicals. He even used to get Harper’s Weekly, which was published in New York. Yet the local bookshops stopped carrying it when it printed pictures of Lincoln.
“Mr. Hughes is here, sir.”
Hughes entered the room, arms outstretched. “Langston,” he said, with a big grin on his face.
The men exchanged greetings. Hughes eventually took a seat and picked up a book on a table beside him. He flipped to the title page: The War in Nicaragua, written by William Walker and published by S. H. Goetzel & Co. in Mobile. On the facing page, a picture of Walker made him look harmless, even effeminate. It was hard to believe this man had led a small army of American adventurers into Nicaragua and had briefly become the little country’s president.
“It’s surprising how photographs are appearing everywhere,” said Hughes.
“It may be a passing fancy,” grunted Bennett. “I’ve never had mine taken.”
“Really? We have to do something about that.” Hughes continued to flip through the pages of the Walker book. “Are we mentioned in here?”
“Fortunately not.”
The light in the room brightened. Hughes looked up to see Lucius adjusting an oil lamp.
“It arrived last fall, around the time of Walker’s death,” said Bennett. “He wrote it to raise money for that final expedition—the one that killed him.”
“I was sorry to hear what had happened,” said Hughes.
“There was a time when you and I believed he held promise. His success might have changed recent events for the better. If some part of Spanish America had been integrated into the Union, we might have averted this whole secession crisis.”
“We did what we could. Yet we were foolish to think the Northern states would ever permit a filibuster like Walker to succeed in one of his conquests—and let Nicaragua, Cuba, or any part of Mexico into the Union as a slaveholding state. I am coming to believe the North actually wants this calamity.”
Hughes set the book back on the table where he had found it. “How exactly did he die? All I heard was that he was executed.”
“The Brits caught him in Honduras plotting a new incursion. They handed him over to the locals, who put him in front of a firing squad.” Bennett lowered his voice. “After they had riddled his body with bullets, the captain walked over to his slumped form, placed the barrel of his musket in Walker’s face, and pulled the trigger. The shot obliterated his features.”
The image made Hughes cringe. “You might have spared me that detail,” he said, shifting around in his chair. He noticed the pleasure Bennett seemed to take from his discomfort.
“Today, of course, I’m much less interested in the events occurring outside our borders than those occurring within them,” said Bennett.
So now it was down to business, thought Hughes. Bennett seemed uncommonly serious this evening.
“Lucius, would you please excuse us? I’ll call if we need anything.”
The slave left and closed the door. Alone in the room with Bennett now, Hughes stood up. He found that pacing made it easier to think.
“Tucker, do you seriously think we can win a war against the North?”
Bennett knew the answer to that question, thought Hughes. They had debated it plenty of times before. It was a rather famous disagreement between the two of them. Why raise it now?
“My opinion on that has not changed, Langston. The South may prevail. We have better leaders, and we will fight a defensive war in protection of our homes and our ways. That gives us a significant advantage.”
“Your ideas on that are thoughtful,” said Bennett, “even though they are wrong.” He paused to let that comment sink in. “Open warfare is exactly the wrong approach. The men now aiming cannons across the water at Fort Sumter are hotheads. They are ready to fire, and they have not given any consideration to whether Virginia will secede, whether they can secure agreements with the border states, or whether they can make treaties with foreign nations. They will act, then think—rather than thi
nk, then act.”
Hughes had heard this before too. Their discussion this evening was like attending a play he had already seen several times. He knew how it would end. Yet Bennett seemed to want to go over the same ground another time. When would the old man ever broach the subject of inheritance? He had no heir—not even a relative. Everybody in Charleston thought he would name Hughes as the main beneficiary of his estate. But so far, he had not. Hughes had hoped tonight might be the night. Then again, this hope seized him every time Bennett summoned him for a visit. Time to return to the script, he thought. I have a part to play.
“Perhaps this business with Sumter is a welcome development,” said Hughes. As he strolled around the room, he spotted some correspondence sitting on a table near Bennett. He immediately wanted to read it. “We’ve known for years that preserving our institutions may require war. Better to strike a blow for our freedom and our culture now than to curl up and let Lincoln destroy them over time and on his terms.”
Bennett shook his head. “That fight cannot be won against the Northerners, at least not in the way you imagine. They have men, money, and material on their side. They are manufacturers. They have a navy. We are an agricultural people. We have rice, sugar, and cotton. It is not enough to win a war. We must consider other options. I want to do something for South Carolina, Tucker—one last thing before my days are done. I want to strike one final blow for the whole South.”
This is new, thought Hughes. Bennett had not hinted at a specific plan of action before. “You puzzle me,” said Hughes, stepping leisurely to the table. Bennett’s back was to him. “One moment you sound like a conciliator who wants to avoid war. The next you say you want to do something for the South. I hope that what you intend to do is something besides giving up.”
“I will never surrender,” sputtered Bennett. “There can be no compromise on the slavery question. We cannot live under politicians whose idea of democracy is that when three people get together, the two shall rule the one. Our institutions must survive. It is our right that they do. And therefore, we must aim directly at the heart of Black Republican rule.”
Hughes was struck by the old man’s passion, but his mind was on the table. “War must be considered,” he said, angling for a view of the papers. “If we show the North we are willing to fight, it may acquiesce.”
Making sure Bennett could not see him, Hughes leaned over the table. A letter on top read, “Su español es bueno, pero mi inglés es mejor. Your offer is generous. I would like to meet in person to discuss it. Expect me in Charleston by the middle part of April.” The letter was not signed.
Hughes could not read the first part, but he knew it was written in Spanish. Did Bennett have some unmentioned relation in Cuba? The thought worried him.
“But it may come to bloodshed,” said Bennett.
“Yes, it may,” said Hughes, returning to his seat. “And if it does, we will have to fight. Even if we lose, we may preserve our honor. But I think we may very well win a war.”
Bennett said nothing for a moment. He appeared to be collecting his thoughts. Then he stared directly at Hughes and narrowed his eyes. “Let’s talk of your inheritance, and how it may help us achieve our goals.”
Hughes slanted forward. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want a war.”
“I know that.”
“I want a death. I want a murder.”
Hughes sat up sharply. “What are you talking about, Langston?”
“I’m talking about Abraham Lincoln.”
In the darkened hallway outside, Lucius pulled his ear back from the door. The sound coming from within was muffled, but Lucius was certain of what he had heard. Without making a sound, he walked to the steps and crept downstairs. He was glad Nelly was not waiting for him.
FIVE
FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 1861
Rook’s head jerked up as his horse came to a halt outside the Winder Building on Seventeenth Street. The animal seemed to know instinctively where to stop. It had become used to the routine since the inauguration: a daily walk around Washington’s rutted roads and cratered streets so that Rook could inspect the bridges leading into the city and the pickets that guarded the roads to the north. Rook had become used to it as well, so much, in fact, that he had nodded off a couple of times between his last stop, at the Chain Bridge out past Georgetown, and his destination here.
He hopped down from his mount and yawned. It was dusk when he had set out, and since then the sun had gone down completely. Lights glowed from inside the building in front of him. An attendant materialized to take the horse.
“I expect to be here a little while,” said Rook. He gazed across the street at the War Department and the Navy Department buildings. They were small—perfectly adequate for peacetime, thought Rook. Beyond them, he saw the president’s mansion. There were lights on over there too.
“Colonel!”
The call came from across the street. A figure waved to him and approached. When he got closer, Rook recognized John Hay, a personal secretary to the president.
“Good evening,” said Hay, holding out his hand. Rook grasped it. “How are things with you?”
Rook had met Hay only a couple of times previously and never at any length. They certainly were not intimates. He was struck by the young man’s familiarity—he behaved as if he and Rook were old friends.
“I’m well, but a bit tired,” said Rook.
“Aren’t we all?” laughed Hay, who certainly did not look the way Rook felt.
Rook didn’t know much about Hay. He had come with Lincoln from Illinois, and he actually lived in the White House so he could be near the president at all times. He was perhaps twenty-two years old.
“Maybe I’ll get some sleep after my meeting with General Scott,” said Rook. “He wants updates every day on Washington’s military preparedness.”
“Isn’t it past his bedtime?”
Rook smiled. Everybody knew Scott’s reputation.
“The general may not be in the springtime of his career,” said Rook, “but he’s a hard worker who demands a lot from the officers beneath him.”
“Let’s hope your meetings are more productive than mine. I spent half of my day dealing with government accountants. In the White House budget, there’s only one slot for a secretary to the president. But there are two of us.”
“Sounds like a headache.”
“It’s a battle between the president’s will and an administrative won’t,” said Hay. The line seemed well rehearsed. Rook got the feeling that he was not the first person to hear it.
“Are they trying to make you quit?” asked the colonel.
“Not at all. They’re giving me a clerk’s position in the pension office and assigning me to the president’s staff.”
“Isn’t that the same thing as putting you in the White House?”
“Absolutely. But on paper there will still be just one secretary. It seems that in Washington, the purpose of paperwork is to obscure reality. At least that’s my lesson for today.” Hay rolled his eyes for effect.
Rook chuckled. He found himself liking the young man.
“I’ve detained you long enough, Colonel,” said Hay, starting to go back across Seventeenth Street. “If you ever need something, you know where to find me—not in the place where my paperwork says I should be!”
Rook watched him go. Then he turned and walked into the Winder Building. The gas lighting and marbled wallpaper were rarities in Washington. It was one of the most attractive interiors in the city. Rook immediately smelled dinner. Scott often ate at this hour. From the room outside Scott’s door, Rook inhaled the aroma of roasted chicken. He was one of the few people allowed to walk in on the general unannounced, though it was hardly a surprise for him to show up right now, when he was expected.
“Hello, Locke,” he said to Scott’s personal secretary, Colonel Samuel Locke, who was sitting at a desk by the entrance to Scott’s room.
“Good evening, C
olonel,” said Locke, who did not look up from the newspaper he was reading.
“Anything in the news?”
“The general is waiting for you.”
Rook did not like Locke. The man was a dandy—the kind of officer who was always looking at a mirror to make sure his buttons were shiny and his hair was just so. Rook could not imagine Locke in the field, doing the rugged work soldiers were meant to do. Yet the modern army needed all kinds, including paper pushers whose place was at a desk rather than in a saddle.
What really bothered him about Locke was the rudeness. Why was it so difficult for him to engage in small talk for a minute or two? Rook knew the answer: he had the job that Locke had wanted for himself, the responsibility for Washington’s defenses and the president’s security. Rook could not actually imagine Locke in that role. Apparently Scott could not imagine it either, because he was the one who had passed over Locke in favor of Rook. For his part, Locke seemed able to forgive the general and chose instead to channel his anger toward Rook and create a rivalry where none, at least in Rook’s opinion, needed to exist. Rook found the behavior both baffling and irritating. At least Locke made no attempt to hide his resentment. The worst enemies were the ones who pretended to be friends.
On the other side of the door, Rook found Lieutenant General Winfield Scott removing a napkin from his collar. The old man was still chewing but wiped his mouth and took a sip of wine from a glass that was almost empty. A plate piled high with bones sat before him. It appeared as though he had just devoured an entire chicken all by himself, which didn’t surprise Rook at all. The man’s meals were always feasts.
The general’s face was bloated and his body, enormous. It was hard to believe this fat giant was the same commander who had cut such an impressive figure in Mexico. Scott always had been a big man—he was six foot four and one-quarter inches tall, as he often reminded people. Yet the years were not kind to him. He was now so large that he could not mount a horse, and his carriage had to be specially designed to ride low to the ground because the general was not able to lift himself into anything higher. That little mountain of chicken bones on his plate, thought Rook, was not going to make it any easier.
The First Assassin Page 4