“It is good to see you, Colonel,” said Scott, swallowing his last bite. “Let me get this cleared.”
He picked up a small bell on his table and rang it. A black valet shuttled into the room and began to remove the dishes and tablecloth. He was about to take the wine glass when Scott reached for it and gave him a hard look before pouring the last contents down his throat. Scott wiped his mouth again and placed the glass and napkin back on the table. The valet snatched them up and was gone in a flash.
“Please, sir, have a seat,” said Scott, gesturing to where Rook always sat.
The general pushed his own chair away from the table. Grunting as he struggled against his own bulk, he succeeded in moving it less than a foot. Rook had seen this before too, and once he had offered to help Scott position himself in his seat. The old man would have none of it. Attendants had surrounded him for years, and accommodations a more vigorous man would not have needed now filled up much of his life. Even the president occasionally would come down from his office in the White House and meet the general in the driveway so that Scott would not have to strain himself getting in and out of his carriage. Even so, there were a few things Scott insisted on doing without assistance. Making himself comfortable in a chair was one of them.
When Scott finally settled in, he took a deep breath. The effort had exhausted him. At last he looked at the colonel.
“What is the latest?” asked Scott.
Rook delivered his standard report. “There continues to be civilian movement out of the city,” he said. That morning, two families had departed the city by the Long Bridge, both bound across the Potomac River for Richmond. Their carts were stuffed with their belongings, indicating that they did not intend to return for quite some time, if at all. As was the custom, the soldiers guarding the bridge questioned them.
“One fellow didn’t want to talk,” said Rook. “The other one admitted that he wanted to get out of the city because he did not support the new administration and the types of people it has brought here.”
“This is typical.”
“Yes, an ordinary day at the bridges.”
“Is there more, Colonel?”
“I lost another lieutenant today,” Rook said.
Civilians were not the only ones turning their backs on Washington during the secession crisis. Officers were leaving as well, resigning their commissions and heading home. Everybody in the chain of command knew about this problem, including Scott. The army was full of Southerners, especially in the officer corps. The drain was beginning to take its toll.
“Where is this former lieutenant going?” asked Scott.
“North Carolina.”
“That state has not dissolved its ties to us.” For a moment, Scott was silent. Then he waved his hand dismissively. “He was only a lieutenant,” he said. “You will not miss him.”
That was true enough, though the problem was far bigger than any single individual. Collectively, these losses were starting to affect manpower and morale. Every day seemed to bring a new desertion. By doing nothing in response, the army appeared content to let its men slip away at their leisure and join the ranks of a rebel movement.
Rook worried that these resignations were not even the biggest problem. What if some of the officers who remained in uniform were actually disloyal? And what if they stayed behind because they wanted to become subversives? He recalled how he had ordered a captain to patrol a wing of the Capitol the night before Lincoln delivered his inaugural address. With all the rumors about the president’s safety, Rook wanted to be sure that the building was free of people who did not actually belong there. The captain seemed to do his duty well enough, and there was, of course, no trouble on the big day. Yet the man was gone within a week, after deciding that he owed more allegiance to Alabama than to the federal government. It made Rook realize that the army was perhaps vulnerable in ways that nobody had anticipated.
“I’m beginning to wonder whom we can trust,” said the colonel. It was a risky thing to say. Scott was from Virginia, and there was talk among some Northerners that even he could not be trusted. Rook certainly did not want to make any such implication.
“If we acted against these men, the consequences could be terrible,” said Scott. “It might strain relations between North and South even further—”
Rook could not stop himself from raising his eyebrows in disbelief. He immediately regretted it. The expression had caused Scott to stop talking, as if he had been interrupted. The general did not like being interrupted.
“Colonel?”
“Seven states are already gone, sir,” said Rook. “They have seceded. How much more strained could relations become?”
“There is no fighting.”
“Not yet. But if you weren’t worried about the possibility, you never would have brought me into your service.”
Before the general could reply, Locke burst into the room. He made straight for Scott with a piece of paper in his hand.
“This just arrived from the telegraph office,” he said. “It requires immediate attention.”
He handed the paper to Scott, who held it at an angle to catch the light of a lamp. He grimaced. “It’s from Crittenden,” he said. The contents clearly irritated him. “Bring me pen, ink, and paper!”
John Crittenden was one of the country’s best-known politicians. He had served as attorney general for three different presidents. Most recently he had been a senator from Kentucky, a state that permitted slavery but which had not seceded. It would not secede if Crittenden had anything to do with it: he was a strong unionist.
Locke scampered out of the room and came back with pen, ink, and paper. He handed them to the general, who did not move his chair to the table. That would have required an enormous effort. Instead, he leaned way over to his left and scribbled a message.
He waved the paper in the air to help the ink dry and looked at Rook. “Colonel, we have fallen upon evil days. To think that a man who has known me so long and so well as my old friend Crittenden should find it necessary to send me a telegraphic dispatch to which I have to make such an answer as this.” He thrust the paper in Rook’s direction. Rook rose for it. He knew the script well, as he had taken written orders from the general many times previously. Its message was typical of Scott, concise and blunt: “To the Hon. John Jordan Crittenden. I have not changed. I have not thought of changing. I am for the Union. Winfield Scott.”
Rook handed the note back to the general, who gave it to Locke. “It seems these days as though no man has entire confidence in any other man. Crittenden is my old friend!” said Scott, shaking his head. “Locke, get this message off promptly.”
Locke closed the door behind him. A hush descended on the room. What had just transpired obviously disturbed the general. All loyalties were in doubt, even those belonging to a national hero like Scott.
“Was there anything else, Colonel?” Apparently the general did not want to discuss the loyalty or disloyalty of his subordinates. That was all right with Rook. Something else weighed more heavily on his mind than the departures.
He leaned forward. “You’ve heard the rumors about the president. They haven’t let up. It is the talk of the city. Mr. Lincoln’s life remains in danger, no less than it did on his inauguration day.”
Scott frowned. “Of course, I’ve heard some rumors. Who hasn’t? The air is hot with them.”
“Do you know what today is, General?”
Scott did not like being questioned. He scowled but answered anyway. “Friday.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s March fifteenth.”
“Yes?”
“The Ides of March.”
“Are you giving me a history lesson, Colonel? I know my history. Today is the date of the death of Julius Caesar.”
“And the anniversary of the most famous political assassination in world history.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Your dramatics do not transform fable into fact. Rumors are not the same thing
as evidence.”
“If we cannot act on well-founded suspicion, we won’t ever collect evidence—and we may fail our duties,” said Rook.
“We have no hard proof that Virginia is about to march an army into the federal capital, and yet we’ve ordered a guard at all the bridges leading into the city. My men at these posts are under specific instruction to watch for organized movement across the river and to warn us the moment they spy anything suspicious. We’ve set up pickets along the roads into Maryland for similar reasons. We don’t know whether there will be any trouble from Virginia or Maryland. We merely suspect that trouble may come—and so we take precautions.”
“These precautions are simple and they cost us nothing,” said Scott. “But the rumors of threats against the president’s life are little more than idle chatter in an anxious city. I discount all of it. The time to strike against the president directly would have been before or during the inauguration. It would have created panic and confusion here in Washington and throughout the Northern states.” This was the conventional wisdom among those who thought seriously about the security of the president: an assassination now, or even an attempt to assassinate, would create many problems—but most likely would strengthen the resolve of the Northern states and make them less inclined to compromise.
“Any student of history knows that assassinations rarely achieve their political ends,” continued Scott. “They almost always backfire. Caesar is a perfect example of this. His killers wanted to preserve republican government, but they wound up with an emperor. I do believe we crossed an important threshold when Lincoln took the oath. You might even say we crossed the Rubicon.” Scott smirked at his own cleverness.
“The president is hated in too many quarters. All it would take is someone willing to—”
“Colonel,” interrupted Scott, “the other thing you must realize is that no American president has ever been assassinated. I know of only one attempt that’s ever been made. You are perhaps a bit too young to remember it yourself. It was about twenty-five years ago, during the second term of Andrew Jackson.” Scott spit out the name with distaste, as Jackson was an old nemesis. He described how Jackson was walking through the rotunda of the Capitol when a madman—a house painter called Richard Lawrence—leaped out from behind a pillar and pointed his pistol at the president. He pulled the trigger, but the gun failed to fire. So Lawrence reached for a second one, aimed it at Jackson, and pulled its trigger. Again, the gun did not go off. By this point onlookers were able to grapple with Lawrence and disarm him. Investigators later determined that his powder and bullets had fallen out of his guns when they were still in his pockets.
As he told the story, Scott was animated, but then he sighed. “Jackson accused his political enemies of plotting against him. That was typical. He tried to turn this astonishing event to his political advantage. In fact, there were those who thought the whole episode was a stunt, manufactured by Jackson for the specific purpose of letting him rail at his opponents.” Scott obviously believed Jackson was perfectly capable of such behavior. “But it turned out that Lawrence was simply deranged. Francis Scott Key prosecuted the case, and the jury decided Lawrence was a lunatic not responsible for his own actions. He was confined to an asylum.”
Rook had heard of the incident, but not in such detail.
“If Lawrence had not been crazy,” the general went on, “he would not have tried to kill the president. This is the great problem with assassinations. The killing is not the hard part. A half-wit like Lawrence might have pulled it off, but then only a half-wit would have made Lawrence’s mistake. The tricky part isn’t pulling the trigger. It’s getting away. No man except a fanatic or an idiot would try to murder the president without an escape plan, and the president is almost never alone. Evading capture would be close to impossible. The man who might succeed probably would be smart enough not to try.”
Scott folded his arms at the conclusion of this little speech. Rook sensed that the old man did not want to be challenged.
“I have a modest proposal,” Rook said at last.
“And what is it?” The general sounded skeptical.
“There are men like Lawrence out there. There are also men who have Lawrence’s murderous intentions, and most of them aren’t crazy. Therefore, we must increase the number of men assigned to protect the life of the president—”
“Absolutely not!” Scott was almost shouting.
“Just a handful of men, sir—surely we can spare a few from their posts at the Armory and Treasury—”
“That’s not the issue,” said Scott, lowering his voice but remaining stern. “I am sure we could spare them. The problem is that they aren’t wanted where you would like to put them. The president is completely opposed to a plan along these lines. He won’t tolerate more security than he already has.”
“Sir, the current security arrangement is not adequate. The president’s house is open to the public at all hours. It would not take much for a lone gunman to slip inside without arousing suspicion. Assigning a few additional men would harm nothing and help much. I’m also concerned about the president’s protection when he leaves the grounds of his mansion. He is sometimes with only one or two men. At these moments, he is especially vulnerable. We really should demand more security.”
“Are you done?” asked Scott with impatience.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you’ve gotten it off your chest, Colonel. And the answer is still no.”
“Might he at least consider keeping himself out of view? Perhaps he could limit his public appearances.”
“The answer is no, Colonel.”
“Doesn’t he understand the danger?”
Scott raised his palm, signaling Rook to silence.
“Colonel, your misgivings are noted. They are also rejected. You know how much criticism the president received for his passage through Baltimore, even from some of his closest friends. It was an awful start to his time in Washington. And then the inaugural security was very tight. Some believed it was too tight. Nobody failed to notice it. You did a superb job that day. I commend you for it. Yet our actions have their critics. They thought the security was overwhelming, even anti-democratic. I know the president himself shares this view. He has told me as much. We are fortunate that he has accepted the guards who surround him now. It is my concern that one day he will order them away. We should be grateful that he doesn’t walk though the city in the dark by himself. I’m learning that he can be a stubborn man—he is probably capable of going for a midnight stroll in Murder Bay just to prove a point. I appreciate your concerns, Colonel, but you must put these notions out of your head.”
There was no getting through, Rook realized. It sounded as though Scott possibly agreed with him at some level. That was not the same thing as the president’s agreeing with them, of course. Rook understood that he was supposed to abide by the orders of his superior officer, and now he realized that Scott was simply following orders given by the one man in the whole country who could tell the general what to do.
“Is there anything else, Colonel?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I will see you tomorrow. Good night.”
SIX
THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1861
Bennett and Hughes sat unsmiling in chairs just a few feet apart. They were dressed almost exactly alike, both in dark frock coats and black gloves. Each rested a cane against one knee and propped a hat on the other. They looked ready to go somewhere, but they sat perfectly still.
“Steady…steady…”
The men fixed their eyes on the same point across the room. Hughes appeared at ease, relaxing in his chair as if he could sit there all day.
“Steady…steady…”
Bennett, however, was clearly perturbed. For him, sitting motionless required total concentration. His face slowly twisted into a frown. His wide-open eyes blazed with intensity. He seemed ready to burst.
“Steady…steady…done!”
&n
bsp; A man on the other side of the room gently placed a cap on a small tube projecting out of a wooden box. The contraption stood on three legs about five feet off the ground.
Bennett bolted up. He let out a loud hack and collapsed back into the chair, exhausted from the effort.
“We’re almost done, Langston. Only one more picture, I promise,” said Hughes.
“Let’s see how this one came out,” said the photographer, a wiry man with curly blond hair. His sleeves were rolled up, and silver stains covered an apron he wore over his shirt. He turned to his subjects and rubbed his hands together. “Would you like to see how the process works, Mr. Bennett?”
The old man grunted. “No thank you, Mr. Leery. I would not even begin to understand it.”
“Very well.”
The photographer removed a slide from the camera. It was housed in a protective case, out of the light. “Hold this, Marcus,” he said to his assistant, a light-skinned black boy who looked about twelve years old. Then Leery disappeared into a large box covered by a red curtain.
“Where did you find this man?” asked Bennett.
“He opened a shop on King Street last fall. He came down here from New York City.”
“I could tell that just by listening to him talk. I don’t trust people with a Yankee accent.”
“Many of the New Yorkers are on our side in this, Langston. You know that. They depend on us for trade. The whole merchant class there needs us. Besides, photography has nothing to do with the crisis. It’s just a diversion. You don’t need to be so grumpy about it.”
“I am restless. Our days are filled with waiting.”
Hughes could not disagree. He was coming to Bennett’s house every afternoon now. They spent long hours together, sharing meals, talking, and reading in each other’s presence. Mostly they just waited. Hughes thought the novelty of a photo session would help them pass the time, especially after Bennett had remarked a month back about never having had his picture taken. Leery performed most of his work in his studio, but Hughes had convinced him to visit Bennett’s home—it was the only way he could get the old man to consent to having his photograph taken. Yet Hughes also understood that the exercise was more than a diversion. Sitting for a portrait with Bennett made him feel like an heir.
The First Assassin Page 5