The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  I can’t wait to see your granddaughter. Perhaps there was nothing suspicious behind those words at all. Lucius again looked down the lane where the runaways had slipped off the night before. He knew he would eventually have to cover for Portia. He had not expected that moment to come so soon, though. He would have preferred for a day or two to go by before Bennett or Tate started asking a lot of questions. But Lucius knew that he could not avoid a reckoning. Every hour between now and then counted. Lucius determined he would try to keep Bennett’s curiosity about Portia to a minimum. It would be a real accomplishment, he now believed, if he got through the entire day without anybody realizing she was gone.

  Big Joe was another matter. There were probably a few people wondering about him already. He was the sort of worker whose presence would be missed soon. Lucius still believed it was a mistake for Joe to have joined Portia on her flight, but he felt that the two of them had forced his hand the night before. What else could he have done, call the whole thing off and recruit another runaway? That would take a few days to arrange at a minimum, and Lucius was not sure how much time he had to spare. It had been more than a week since he had seen Lincoln’s would-be killer in Charleston. It might already be too late to stop him. Besides, Portia really was the best choice—she was smart, she had been to Charleston before, and she knew Nelly. It made sense for her to be the one. Joe might even come in handy on the road. Unfortunately, his absence on the plantation probably would cause a search party to begin a hunt sooner than if Portia had gone by herself.

  There was still no sign of Bennett in the manor. Lucius looked at the fields. Normally they would be full of slaves at this time of day. Now they were empty. He spotted Tate in the distance making his way toward the slave cabins. The overseer had spent the last half hour telling the field hands to pause in their work and assemble for Bennett’s visit. Lucius wondered if Tate supposed that Joe was missing. With so many slaves on the plantation, it was not likely he would notice on his own, at least not right away. A slave might have reported it to him, though. Tate had plenty of informants on the plantation, and reporting a runaway was an easy way to keep in the good graces of the overseer. Another one of the overseers—there were four besides Tate—might have noticed Joe’s absence too.

  Lucius thought that if he could somehow prevent the news of Joe’s disappearance from making the rounds until later in the day, or perhaps into the evening, then he might buy the runaways another night before a group of slave catchers went out after them. He just was not sure how to do it.

  “Hello!” said Bennett as he emerged from the house. He sounded cheerful. The master of the plantation loved these gift-giving excursions to the slave quarters. Perhaps twice a year, he handed out blankets, clothes, shoes, and other items to the slaves. These were not gifts, actually. They were necessities, and somebody would have to supply them if Bennett did not. But Bennett took great pleasure in handing out these items personally. It allowed him to play the patriarch. He also believed it made him more popular among the slaves. He wanted them to think he was a good master.

  “Let’s go,” said Bennett, heading in the direction of the slave quarters. He descended onto the gravel driveway with the cautious steps of a man owning a wooden leg, yet it might have been said that there was a spring in his step. Lucius walked beside him. The cart with the boxes followed. A few minutes later, when the slave cabins came into view, they saw a big gathering of men, women, and children. The group let out a few whistles and claps. Tate was standing to the side. He immediately approached. It was clear that he had something on his mind.

  “Mr. Bennett,” he said. “May I have a quick word with you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Big Joe isn’t here,” Tate said in a low voice.

  Bennett stopped in his tracks, about fifty or sixty feet away from the cabins and the assembly of slaves. Lucius ordered the cart to halt. “Really?”

  “That’s right. I heard this morning that he hadn’t shown up where he was expected. I didn’t think too much on it—this is Big Joe, after all, and he’s never given us any trouble. I figured on seeing him here with the others. Well, he’s not here. I’ve asked around, and nobody seems to know where he is.”

  “That’s odd. You don’t suppose…” Bennett’s voice trailed off.

  “It’s not like him,” said Tate. “But you just never know who’s going to get the notion in his head.”

  Lucius knew that if he was going to intervene at all, this was the time. He hardly knew what he was going to say when he spoke up. “Excuse me,” he said. Bennett and Tate snapped their heads in his direction. They were not accustomed to being interrupted by a slave, even if it was Lucius.

  “I woke up early,” he continued, speaking slowly and choosing his words with care. He was making this up as he went along. “I saw Big Joe walk by the house and waved to him. He came up to me and said a tool had broken and he needed to borrow one from the Wilson farm. So I suppose that’s where he is. He’s probably on his way back now. I guess I assumed he’d gotten a pass from you, Mr. Tate.”

  Lucius could not tell whether he had convinced them. He worried that he was not a very good liar.

  “He definitely didn’t speak to me,” Tate said, “and he knows the rules. If he wants to leave the plantation for any reason—even if it’s to fetch a tool from down the way—he needs to talk to me first. He didn’t do that and he certainly didn’t get a pass. He knows better than this. Besides, we can fix tools here.”

  Tate spoke as if he were accusing Lucius. The old slave shrugged his shoulders.

  “What tool did he say was broken?”

  “I don’t think he said which one. He just said a tool. That’s what I remember. We talked about other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “The weather. His family. Things like that.”

  Tate looked at Bennett. “I’m not so sure about this.”

  “Well, if Lucius says he saw him, then he must have seen him. Don’t worry about it now, Mr. Tate. Give him a little while longer. He’ll probably be back soon,” said Bennett, starting to walk again toward the slaves. “You can speak to him then about the rules and handle this situation however you please.”

  “Oh, I’ll handle it,” said Tate, casting a look at Lucius and tapping his whip. “I’ll definitely handle it.”

  Rook studied the exterior of Violet Grenier’s home. He wanted to be inside listening to these men who called themselves Davis and Stephens as they talked to a lady about whom he felt he needed to know much more as soon as possible.

  “Why would a couple of fellows who seem to be up to no good want to meet Grenier?” It was a rhetorical question. Neither Clark nor Springfield tried to answer it.

  They backed away from H Street to a place in the park where they could keep an eye on Grenier’s front door without making themselves obvious.

  “The first step in figuring out why they would want to see Grenier is to figure out why they’re in Washington in the first place,” said Rook. He briefed Springfield on how he and Clark had followed the men from Brown’s to the Capitol and then to here.

  “The most peculiar thing is their interest in the Capitol’s basement,” said Springfield.

  “Yes, and it worries me,” said Rook. He was silent for a moment. “Have either of you heard of Guy Fawkes?”

  The two men looked at each other. They did not know the name.

  “Let me give you a little history lesson,” said Rook. He described the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, in which Fawkes tried to pack explosives into the cellar of the British Parliament and blow it up on a date when the king was scheduled to visit. Before Fawkes could commit his crime, however, he was betrayed: the authorities arrested, tortured, and killed him.

  “Do you really think these guys want to destroy the Capitol?” asked Springfield.

  “I have no idea what to think,” said Rook. “But I don’t want to rule out anything either. Davis and Stephens concern me. They have come
to Washington with assumed names, we have overheard them say provocative things, and they’ve traveled through a part of the Capitol that would have interested Guy Fawkes if he were a secessionist today. Now they’re meeting with Violet Grenier, whose antipathy toward the Union is well known. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to suspect that trouble may be afoot.”

  They discussed the possibility that Davis and Stephens were targeting the Capitol. How many explosives would it take? Where would they have to be placed? What could they possibly hope to achieve?

  “If they actually bombed the Capitol,” said Clark, “it would wipe out any sympathy there is in the North for the South.”

  Rook considered this. It seemed plausible. “They would probably ignite a war,” he said. “But maybe a war is what they want, for whatever foolish reason.”

  The door to Grenier’s home opened. Davis and Stephens emerged and walked in the direction of Brown’s and the Capitol.

  The soldiers had discussed what they would do when Davis and Stephens reappeared. Springfield stayed put. His job was to monitor Grenier’s home for further activity. Clark walked briskly to Brown’s, ahead of Davis and Stephens, on the assumption that this was where they were going. Rook waited for them to pass. When they were a couple hundred feet ahead of him, he followed.

  Davis and Stephens walked down Fifteenth Street and turned left on Pennsylvania Avenue. They seemed unaware of the fact that anybody might be tracking their movements, which made Rook think that they were possibly overconfident. Or perhaps, he thought, they really are not plotting anything at all. They could be visitors from out of town who wanted to see the Capitol and an old friend. Rook knew that he lacked any real evidence against them. All he had were a few vague suspicions and wild speculations. Was he too rash to think of Guy Fawkes? He could hear General Scott berating him for wasting his time in this pursuit and Locke snickering in the background.

  But Rook did not intend to tell Scott about today’s activities. He would not include it in his next briefing at the Winder Building. He would mention other things: troop positions, activity on the bridges, reports from Virginia—anything but this.

  Rook knew he could not spend many more days tracking the likes of Davis and Stephens. If he did, Scott would find out somehow. Easley already had recognized him at the Capitol. Rook doubted that he could survive the general’s wrath, not after the explicit order to quit surveillance. He would have to do something quickly to learn more about Davis and Stephens, or to force their hand in some way.

  Two blocks from Brown’s, Rook paused. As he had expected, Davis and Stephens walked straight to the hotel. By now, he figured, Clark would be there. He could take over observations for a few minutes.

  Meanwhile, Rook examined the storefronts on his side of the Avenue. He was standing almost directly in front of what he was looking for: Brady’s National Photographic Art Gallery. In addition to serving as a studio for Mathew Brady, the up-and-coming photographer, it sold small pictures of famous people. Rook wanted to buy one of the president. Then he would have a chat with Davis and Stephens.

  With help from Lucius, Bennett stepped onto the cart. “Greetings,” he said, with outstretched arms and a big smile. The slaves erupted in approval. Their noise energized Bennett, who now laughed with joy at the reception they gave him. “It’s good to be here.” More cheers. Someone in the front replied, “Welcome back, Mr. Bennett.”

  “Thank you very much,” said the plantation master. “Yes, it’s good to be back. And it’s good to see you. All of you look wonderful.” There were a few scattered handclaps. “I’m returning a little bit later this spring than I had intended. There is much ado in Charleston this year!” He paused, seeming to expect another outburst, as if he were addressing a convention of slaveholders. Instead, there almost was no response at all.

  “Good to be back, yes, good to be back,” he said, almost to himself. Then he recovered. “Shall we see what I’ve brought from the city?”

  This met with a better reception—the applause returned, and so did Bennett’s smile. He reached into the box and pulled out something big and brown. He fumbled with it for a moment and then announced, “Trousers!” He looked at the crowd. “Who would like a new pair of trousers?”

  A balding man who appeared about forty years old stepped forward. His own pants were shredded at the bottom of their legs. There was a hole at one of his knees. “Willie! It’s good to see you, my boy,” shouted Bennett as he tossed the trousers to him. “Looks like you could use a pair!”

  Willie caught the pants. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” he said.

  Bennett continued with more trousers and went on to a box of shirts. Then shoes. Then belts. Then hats. There was no method to how he went about it. He just moved on to the next box and reveled in the task of passing out each item individually. Tate tried to make sure the goods went to the slaves who needed them the most, and he had to settle a few small disputes over who received what. Bennett went on interacting with each of the recipients, albeit briefly, and made sure to say a slave’s name every time. Lucius noticed that Bennett missed a few of the names, using one incorrectly or having to be reminded of it. In years past, he had almost never made a mistake.

  Bennett was most of the way through the boxes when it happened. He lifted the top off the next one and announced, “Dresses!” He pulled out an attractive maroon garment, and a few of the women stepped forward in anticipation. “Ah, yes,” said Bennett, admiring the piece of clothing. “This one is for Portia! Where’s Portia?”

  Lucius looked down at the ground and kicked the dirt.

  “Portia? Where are you?”

  No one came forward.

  “Portia?”

  There was now a general commotion among the slaves. When it became clear that Portia was not among them, they threw suspicious glances at one another. Most of them said nothing. A few cupped their hands and whispered into the ears of their neighbors.

  “Portia?”

  Lucius peered into the crowd, pretending to look for her. Then he caught the eye of Sally, Big Joe’s mother. She was staring right at him. It was a hard look, full of anger. Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head back and forth, almost imperceptibly. At that moment, Lucius knew that she knew.

  “Lucius, where is Portia?”

  The old slave looked up at his master, still standing on the cart holding the maroon dress.

  “I’m sorry, sir, what were you saying?”

  “Where’s Portia?”

  “My granddaughter?”

  Bennett raised his eyebrows. “There’s only one Portia on this farm.”

  “Yes. Of course,” said Lucius. “I’m sorry, sir. She told me she wasn’t feeling well this morning and wanted to take a little walk. I should have told you. I forgot to do that. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Bennett said nothing for a moment. He just stared at Lucius.

  “A little walk this morning? Why isn’t she back?”

  “Maybe she took a nap. She didn’t look very well.”

  “I see. That’s peculiar. She’s a healthy girl, isn’t she?”

  “Yessir. Most of the time anyway.”

  “And you forgot about this, even though we spoke about her just a little bit ago?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Bennett dropped the maroon dress onto the floor of the cart. “Mr. Tate,” he cried, “please help me down from here.” The overseer hurried to the cart and assisted his boss. “Thank you, Mr. Tate. I am getting a bit tired. Perhaps you will finish this business for me?”

  Tate hopped onto the cart and grabbed the maroon dress. He handed it to a woman standing almost right beside him, and then he went back into the box for more.

  Bennett walked over to Lucius. “Something isn’t right.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back soon, sir.”

  “I’m not talking about Portia.”

  Lucius was dumbfounded. This was all beginning to unravel too quickly. What a mistake he had made. What a ter
rible, dreadful mistake.

  “Listen here,” said Bennett. “You’ve been working long hours for me the last few days. I want you to take the rest of the day for yourself. Stay down here and visit with your family. I can get by until morning.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Lucius. “But I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “You will do what I say.”

  Bennett spoke with a sharpness Lucius did not often hear directed his way. The tone troubled him. Surrender seemed the only course. “Yessir,” he replied, bowing his head. Lucius felt like an exile. He watched Bennett amble away toward the manor. The distance between them was growing, in more ways than one.

  Bennett walked up the path and disappeared from the view of the slaves. He was tired. An activity like this used to take almost nothing out of him. Now he could hardly complete it. He might have gone on, but he was disappointed to hear about Portia. Two of his favorite and most obedient slaves were absent, and Lucius seemed to be the only one who knew anything about where they were. The implications were obvious, but he did not want to think about them. He decided to take a nap and not to worry about the situation until later in the day. Perhaps he had been too irritable with Lucius. A rest might do him good. Surely Portia and Joe would be back by then. This mystery would solve itself soon enough.

  He was almost to his house, his mind set squarely on his bed upstairs, when he heard a woman’s voice calling him from behind.

  “Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett!”

  He turned around. It was Sally, Big Joe’s mother, and she was coming toward him at a jog.