The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  Hughes stood up and looked out the window. There were a few ships in the harbor. Perhaps one of these will end the waiting, he thought.

  “They’ll demand surrender soon,” said Bennett.

  Hughes moved his gaze toward the little fort just barely visible in the distance. “Yes. I suppose they will.”

  “If Sumter falls, war will come.”

  “I agree.”

  “But it won’t change our goal.”

  Hughes took his eyes off the fort and looked at Bennett, still seated in the chair. He knew the old man was determined in just about everything he did, but he had not known him to be as determined as he was now. On the day Bennett told him about the plan, he had also said he expected it to be the final important act of his life.

  Suddenly Leery called out from his portable darkroom. “We’re done,” he announced. The photographer stepped out, squinted briefly, and studied the picture. He held up a glass plate and looked at Bennett. “This is called the negative,” said Leery. “It’s a reversed image. Black is white and white is black.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to stop,” muttered Bennett.

  Hughes smiled at the crack as he went to see the picture. It was well focused. The lines were sharp. It was an excellent photograph from a technical perspective. The only problem was Bennett. He was scowling. In negative, he looked like a fiend from the pits of hell.

  “Langston,” said Hughes with a sigh, “let’s try it once more.”

  “We have done this twice already,” complained Bennett, still sitting in his chair across the room. “I am really quite fatigued.”

  “Looking pleasant really takes no effort, Langston. This will be the last one. I promise.”

  Bennett sneered. “No more after this.”

  “Prepare the next picture, Mr. Leery,” said Hughes triumphantly. “This time, I would like to observe.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Hughes.”

  They squeezed into the portable darkroom, a small space when only one person occupied it. For a moment they just stood there. Then Leery’s arm reached out of the curtains.

  “Marcus!” The boy put a clean glass plate in his hand. Leery pulled it into the darkroom. He seized a vial and uncorked it.

  “This is the collodion syrup.” He tipped the vial and poured its contents onto the glass, then twirled the plate in his hand until a thin coating covered the whole surface. “Now we let this dry,” Leery said, setting the plate down on a small shelf. “It will take a few minutes.”

  When the two men emerged from the darkroom, Bennett was still sitting in his chair. Leery gestured to his assistant. “Drop the plate into the silver nitrate when it’s ready.” Marcus disappeared behind the curtains.

  “This can be a dirty line of work,” said Leery, pointing to the smears and streaks on his apron. “I let Marcus handle some of the grubbier chores. He’s a smart boy. If he were a little older, he could probably run this whole business for me.”

  “And if he weren’t a slave boy,” sniped Bennett.

  “Actually, he’s not a slave boy,” said Leery. “He’s free and lives on Nassau Street, in the free black neighborhood. I employ him.”

  “Really,” said Bennett. His disapproval was obvious.

  Leery either did not catch the reproach or he ignored it.

  “After Marcus pulls the glass from the silver nitrate, we’ll have to take our picture while the plate is wet,” he said. “The air is moist today, so we probably have about ten minutes to get the job done—plenty of time. Now let me show you—”

  The sound of a short knock interrupted him. The door to the room opened, and Lucius walked in. He stepped gingerly around the photographic equipment spread across the floor and approached Bennett.

  “There is a visitor, sir,” announced Lucius. “He won’t give his name, but he says he’s from Cuba. He insists that you know him.”

  Bennett looked at Hughes. “Perhaps our wait is over,” he said. Then he turned his attention to Lucius. “Give us a moment to arrange ourselves.”

  The old slave exited the room. Bennett rose to his feet and looked at the photographic equipment. “Mr. Leery, you will have to excuse us. Mr. Hughes and I have a pressing appointment. You must leave immediately.”

  “I understand.” The photographer turned to his assistant, but Marcus was already cleaning up. He spoke again to Bennett. “Shall I make prints of these photos for you right away? I can drop them off here, and you can review them later today at your convenience.”

  “That would be fine, Mr. Leery. See that Lucius gets them.”

  As Leery and Marcus scrambled to pack and go, Bennett put his arm around Hughes. “I will do the negotiating with our guest,” he said in a hushed voice. “You are here primarily as a witness.”

  “I know. We’ve gone over this,” said Hughes.

  The photographers did not need long. Marcus stuffed the darkroom full of pans and solutions, collapsed it, and carried it away. Leery took the camera. At the door, he paused for a moment. “Thank you very much for this opportunity, Mr. Bennett and Mr. Hughes. I am sure you will be pleased with the result.”

  “Yes, Mr. Leery. Good-bye,” said Bennett.

  Hughes frowned at Bennett’s curtness. “Thank you, Mr. Leery. Please do deliver those prints. I will be anxious to see them.”

  With that, Leery left. The two men could hear him and Marcus stomping down the stairs with their load. The front door opened and closed. There was silence for a moment. Next came the faint sound of footsteps moving up the stairs, getting louder.

  In walked Lucius. “Sir, your guest.”

  A figure stood in the doorway. He was clean-shaven, lean, and about average height. The man’s hair was the color of sand. Long exposure to the sun had reddened his skin. His expressionless face was long and narrow. Two bright blue eyes took in the whole room before settling on Bennett.

  “Welcome,” said Bennett. Lucius thought he had never seen his master’s grin look so guarded. There was even a touch of dread in it. Bennett shook the stranger’s hand, and then Hughes did the same.

  Bennett hobbled across the room and motioned to a chair for his guest. The visitor followed and sat down, and Bennett and Hughes took seats facing him. The visitor turned his head deliberately, looking over his left shoulder in the direction of Lucius, who remained standing near the door. His silent request was perfectly clear—he wanted Lucius to leave—but what immediately caught Bennett’s attention was the ear on the right side of his head. Or what remained of it. Half was missing, and most of the rest was mangled. The only unaffected part was a drooping lobe that would have looked large on a fully attached and healthy ear. On this one, it seemed like a bizarre, dangling growth.

  The sight distracted Bennett for a moment. Then he spoke. “Lucius, please leave us,” he said. “Why don’t you go see if Mr. Leery needs help?”

  The three men listened to Lucius go down the steps. There was a pause, and then the front door opened and closed.

  “I have not been in the United States for many years,” said the visitor.

  “This is not the United States anymore, you know,” said Bennett earnestly. “This is South Carolina. We have seceded.”

  “Ah, yes,” chuckled the visitor. Bennett was not sure whether he was being laughed with or laughed at. He decided he did not want to know the answer.

  Bennett shifted in his seat. “How was your journey?” he asked.

  “Agreeable, thank you,” came the reply. “The weather was fine too, and I have found the people of Charleston to be simply delightful.” He smirked. “Shall we set aside these meaningless pleasantries? They are distractions. I know who you are, and I think I know what you want.”

  The man spoke excellent English. Bennett had not been sure that he would. There was perhaps the slightest trace of a Spanish accent, but Bennett wondered whether he noticed it only because he was expecting it. Maybe it was not there at all. This man, at any rate, sounded like an American. From the North, he thoug
ht.

  “What do you know of me?” asked the old plantation owner.

  “Quite a lot, I suppose. You are Langston Bennett. You are one of the wealthiest men in the whole Southern part of the United—I mean, in South Carolina,” said the guest. “Forgive me.” He smirked again. “You own an enormous amount of land in the countryside and also keep this house in the city. You’ve spent time on my little island. Usted aprendió a hablar español. You were a supporter of Walker and Quitman and probably other filibusters as well. You have sent letters asking after me, and you have received responses recommending me for whatever job you have in mind.”

  “Your knowledge is comprehensive,” said Bennett.

  “A man in my line of work survives by staying well informed, Mr. Bennett.”

  “Then you must know what I want.”

  “I think I do, although it is not through any direct knowledge,” said the guest. “It is a matter of deduction.”

  “So what have you deduced?”

  “When a man like you meets with a man like me, there is generally only one thing he has on his mind. There is a certain kind of job he wants executed, and he wants it done by a professional. In your particular case, given your interests and recent events, I would guess that the job is a bit north of here.” He paused for a moment. “I would guess it’s in what you call the United States. Or at least what remains of it.” This time, he did not smirk.

  “You are an intelligent man.”

  “I am paid to be intelligent.”

  “My offer is an attractive one.”

  “You said it would be, and I believe you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Why should I hire you rather than someone else?”

  “Because you need me.”

  “And why is that?”

  The visitor did not move. He did not even cast his eyes downward, Bennett observed. A less confident man would shift in his seat or look away, he thought. This fellow did neither. Bennett found himself liking his guest—or at least approving of him. It was true that the reports he had received from abroad gave his visitor high marks.

  “You need me because nobody else can do the job,” said the guest. “I am aware of the reports that others have considered doing what you are about to ask of me. Yet they were ruled by passion and therefore doomed to fail. You must understand that I do not care about your ultimate ends. I do not care what you hope to accomplish by employing me. I care only about the job I am given. That’s why I’m effective. I’m never desperate. I’m simply lethal.”

  Bennett absorbed this comment. He began to believe that he had found the man he had set out to find.

  “We want you to rid us of this meddlesome president.”

  “Right,” said the visitor. “Now give me a good reason to do this.”

  “You may know that I have no natural heir,” said Bennett.

  “Ever since I lost my two sons, I have searched for a worthy man to assume control of my properties after I am gone. In Tucker Hughes, I have found that man.”

  Bennett gestured to Hughes, who nodded his head at the visitor. Then Bennett rose and wobbled over to his desk. He opened a drawer and removed several documents. “This is a copy of my will,” he said when he returned. “Please, take a look at it.”

  The guest took the pages and scanned them. “As you can see,” said Bennett, “it lists all of my property and deeds virtually the entire estate to Mr. Hughes.”

  “That is indeed what it says here.”

  “I am an old man,” said Bennett. “It is doubtful that I will survive more than a few years.” He handed his guest another document. “This is an unsigned codicil. It was drafted the day I received the letter saying you would come for a meeting. It amends the will you have just read to provide half of my property to a person who completes a certain unnamed task to my satisfaction. if I am still living, or of Mr. Hughes, if I am not.”

  The visitor looked it over. “This does leave matters a bit open-ended,” he said. “But I think we can work with it.”

  “I figure a man in your line of work has the ability to enforce legitimate contracts if others do not,” said Bennett.

  “You need not worry about it coming to that, however. We are men of honor. Mr. Hughes has every incentive to make good on our promise. He wants the result it will obtain as much as I do.”

  “Then perhaps this is settled,” said the guest.

  “You find our terms acceptable?”

  “I do.”

  “Excellent,” said Bennett. “Now, in terms of the planning—”

  The visitor interrupted. “I will plan everything myself. In fact, you will not hear from me again until I have completed the assignment. I will not tell you where I am going or how I will accomplish it. But it will be done, and it will be done in a timely manner.”

  “How will we keep track of you?” asked Hughes, speaking for the first time.

  “You won’t.”

  “We won’t?”

  “No. There is nothing you can provide me.”

  “That may not be true,” said Bennett. “I have a friend in Washington who may be of some assistance. She is an ally to our cause, and she has resources you may find helpful. I won’t insist on it, but I believe it would be a mistake not to make use of her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Violet Grenier. She is near the center of the city’s social life. She knows many things about many people. Some call her the most persuasive woman ever to live in Washington. She will almost certainly have intelligence you will want to know.”

  The visitor said nothing. Bennett took this as a sign to continue.

  “I have taken the liberty of writing her a letter of introduction,” he said, handing an envelope to his guest. “I suggest you give it to her and see what she can do for you.”

  The visitor studied the envelope. It was sealed. He turned it over in his hands several times before looking up.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “I will consider making contact with this woman. In the meantime, I believe this concludes our business. You will know when I have succeeded. Sometime after that, you will see me again.”

  He stood up to leave, but Hughes stepped into his view. “This may sound strange, but who are you?”

  The visitor shot a look at Bennett.

  “It may be best that you not know more than you already do,” said Bennett.

  “What is your name?” Hughes persisted. “What if we need to contact you through Mrs. Grenier? How are we to do that? There must be some name that we can use.”

  The visitor glared at Hughes, and it made the young man feel small. Hughes could see a vein in the guest’s forehead throbbing. He was suddenly afraid of this man.

  “You need not answer him,” said Bennett.

  The guest did not move. Hughes felt himself withering. Then the guest smiled, though not in a kindly way. His eyes seemed to threaten.

  “You may call me,” he said, pausing briefly, and then speaking with a full Spanish trill, “Mazorca.”

  The sky was overcast as Mazorca stepped off the porch of the Bennett house. He was satisfied with the arrangements made inside. It was quite a bit of land. When he completed the job, he would gain a small fortune. Mazorca had every intention of collecting.

  He walked toward the water, where a few people strolled around the Battery. Off in the distance was Sumter. The day before, on the ship sailing into Charleston Harbor, Mazorca had seen it up close. He could tell immediately that it would not survive a coordinated attack. It was meant to serve as one part of a harbor defense rather than stand on its own. Its enemies were expected to come from the sea, not from the land. If the guns of Fort Moultrie started pounding away, Sumter’s fall would be only a matter of time.

  Mazorca halted at the Battery’s edge. Green water lapped against the seawall. He stood motionless for a while, watching the waves roll up and down. He thought about the job that lay ahead. The objective was a familiar one. Yet it also felt like the m
ost ambitious assignment he had ever accepted. There was much to learn, much to plan. He would enjoy the test and savor the success.

  The papers in his pocket—the will, the codicil, and the letter to Grenier—pressed against his chest. He pulled them out, reviewed them, and put them back. Then he looked down at the water again. Its constant flow fascinated him. He stared at it for a few minutes, engrossed in the way that some people are when they stare at a fire.

  About thirty feet to his right, Marcus placed a cap on the lens that had been pointing at Mazorca for half a minute. As Mazorca turned around and walked toward King Street and the heart of the city, he did not see Marcus. Nor did he see Lucius pat the boy on the back.

  SEVEN

  SUNDAY, APRIL 14, 1861

  The wagon creaked forward, inch by inch. Somebody had taken everything he could manage to remove from his home and piled it onto the cart. The heap of trunks and furniture soared twelve feet off the ground. Two horses strained to pull this load toward the base of the Long Bridge, where Fourteenth Street and Maryland Avenue converged. It was incredible to think they had gotten the wagon to move at all.

  For Colonel Rook, the sight was no novelty. The slow evacuation of Washington by Southerners had been going on for weeks. Some packed lightly because they did not think they would be gone for more than a few months. Others, like this man, seemed to take everything they owned.

  Rook was convinced that even more people would leave now: the fall of Fort Sumter was inevitable. On Friday, the rebels in South Carolina had started firing. There were rumors the next day that Major Anderson had surrendered, but nothing was confirmed. Rook knew it was just a matter of time. Without provisions, Anderson could not withstand a siege. Sumter was finished.