“Yes, Sally?”
“Oh, Mr. Bennett, I’m so glad I can speak to you alone like this,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”
After leaving the White House grounds, Mazorca wandered around the city. He had memorized details from guidebooks, but studying maps and reading descriptions only went so far. Nothing provided as clear a sense of place as being there. His immediate concern was to find somewhere to stay—a base of operations.
He roamed up and down Pennsylvania Avenue and explored its intersecting streets. The south side of the Avenue—the part called Murder Bay—was full of shady saloons and brothels. Things improved to the north, but Mazorca did not want to check in to one of the large hotels that lined the Avenue. He wanted something smaller, a room at a place where he might come and go without having to pass through a crowded lobby. He eventually found what he was looking for at a boardinghouse several blocks north of the Avenue, between Sixth Street and Seventh Street.
The address was 604 H Street. It was a three-story building squeezed between two others. More important, though, was its location near the city center but not so close as to be a part of it. Mazorca watched it for a few minutes from across the street. In the middle of the day, it was impossible to tell how many people it housed—they were probably all at work. But he did see a woman bustling around the first floor. He figured she was the proprietress.
“Good afternoon!” she said when Mazorca walked through the door. “My name is Mary Tabard. Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”
She was a large woman, tall and heavy. A frumpy dress covered her shapeless body. Her pale brown hair was held in a bun. Mazorca guessed that she was fifty years old.
“Yes. I expect to be in the city for a few weeks. I would like a place where I may have a bit of privacy.”
“You will definitely find that here!” said Tabard. Mazorca got the feeling that she would have said the exact opposite if he were to have remarked that he wanted a boardinghouse where all the guests became boon companions. That kind of salesmanship probably would have gone on anywhere, though. Still, he wanted to make a few things clear to her.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, acting relieved. “Sometimes I find that the people running these boardinghouses just suffocate their guests with attention. I can tell already that you aren’t the nosy type.”
“Oh no! Not me!”
“Wonderful. I have some business in the city. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here—but I’m willing to pay for a month’s room and board right now if you can promise me a door with its own lock.”
“I’ve got six rooms total—and exactly the right one for you. Every room has its own key.”
They quickly agreed on a price for a second-story room. A window looked onto H Street. For a name, Mazorca told her that he was called “Mr. Mays.”
Tabard offered to call for his trunk, and then she had the good sense to leave him alone. There was no avoiding that they would become familiar, thought Mazorca as he pulled up the right leg of his trousers and unbuckled a holster from his calf. He assumed his habits would become apparent to some of the other guests as well. They might come to know that he kept odd hours. Mazorca had no intention of showing up for meals, even though he had paid for them. This would cause them to whisper too. Yet Mazorca believed he could keep plenty of secrets from them. He found that preferable to engaging in conversation around a table, where he might have to concoct elaborate cover stories—and perhaps arouse suspicions that would otherwise lie fallow. After a week or so, they would probably come to regard him as a harmless recluse. If they showed too much curiosity, Mazorca had a few options available. This final thought passed through his mind as he removed a small derringer pistol from the holster and inspected it.
His trunk arrived within an hour, and a muscular black man carried it to his room. When he was alone again, Mazorca pushed it under the window. He unlocked the trunk and lifted its lid. The shirts and trousers were still stacked in neat piles. On the left-hand side rested a coiled brown belt, with the buckle facing away from him. A large knife lay beneath it with the cutting edge turned toward him. On the right-hand side was an upside-down book, with the spine facing away. Everything appeared as he had left it. Satisfied by this, he began removing the contents. When he had burrowed about halfway down, he found what he was looking for.
Mazorca reached into the trunk and removed a rifle. It was a Sharps New Model 1859 breechloader—a deadly weapon that could hit a target from a good distance. Right away, he started to clean it.
Rook walked through the front door of Brown’s to find the hotel lobby in the lull of the middle afternoon, between the busy periods of lunch and dinner. About two dozen people milled about, some in conversation, a few reading newspapers, and two or three seeming to do nothing at all. Clark stood near a bar and caught the colonel’s eye. He nodded toward the back of the room, where Davis and Stephens nursed drinks. Rook headed straight for them. He took a seat at their table and gave a big smile. It was not returned.
For a few seconds, Rook just stared at one man and then the other. Davis narrowed his eyes at Rook. He looked menacing. “What can we do for you?” he finally asked in a tone that suggested he did not want to do anything at all for Rook.
“That depends,” replied Rook, affecting a slight Southern drawl.
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on why you’re here.”
“Our affairs are not your affairs.”
“Perhaps not. But then again, perhaps they are. I’m intrigued by the fact a couple of boys like you would show up right now in our nation’s capital.” Rook inflected those last three words with sarcasm. “Where are you from? Alabama? Mississippi?”
Davis and Stephens said nothing. Clark took a seat at a nearby table, with his back to this conversation, and opened a copy of the National Intelligencer.
“Well, it hardly matters where you’re from exactly,” continued Rook. “I’m just interested in where you’re from generally. There aren’t many Southerners arriving here nowadays. There are even fewer calling themselves Jeff Davis and Alex Stephens.”
Davis raised an eyebrow. Rook sensed an opening.
“Gentlemen, it does not take a genius to read a hotel registry,” said Rook. He smiled again and took a small palmetto brocade from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Understand something. The number of people who think the way we do dwindles by the hour around here. Guests check out of Brown’s these days, rather than check in. So your arrival is conspicuous. Most of those of us who remain behind are planning to get out soon. In my case, I must attend to some unfinished business.”
Rook reached into his pocket again and pulled out the Brady photo of Lincoln. He put it on the table beside the brocade and made sure both Davis and Stephens saw what it was. Then he took the pin of the brocade and stabbed it into Lincoln’s face. He twisted it around, carving a small hole where Lincoln’s head had been. Rook let the brocade and defaced photo lie before Davis and Stephens for a moment. When he thought they had taken a good look, he collected both items and returned them to his pocket.
“As I said, I must attend to some unfinished business,” said Rook. He was pleased to see that Davis and Stephens had dropped their threatening looks. Rook leaned into the table and spoke in a hushed voice. “And I’m always on the lookout for new business opportunities.”
Stephens glanced at Davis, in a clear sign of deference. The big man did not budge. He still stared at the table, looking at the place where the defaced photo had rested. Finally his eyes moved to Rook.
“I appreciate the invitation, Mr.—?”
“Bishop,” replied Rook.
“Mr. Bishop. Very well. I wish you every success, Mr. Bishop. I really do. But it appears as though we are working toward different ends, despite our shared sympathies. You have your intentions, and I have mine.”
“What better intention could you have than this imposter who calls himself president?”
&
nbsp; “I didn’t say I had a better intention, just a different one. We may serve our interests best simply by staying out of each other’s way.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy,” said Rook. “If one of us succeeds, the other surely will find his task much more challenging. Security is weak across the city, but it won’t stay that way forever. Your hints intrigue me, Mr. Davis. They raise an important question: should one of us assist the other? I am native to this city and have resources at my disposal that you may find invaluable.”
Davis tapped a finger on the table. “I will consider your offer,” he said at last. “But it is too early for anything more. I’m waiting for a shipment to arrive, and it won’t get here until the morning. Meet me in this place tomorrow evening. Perhaps we can talk in some detail then.”
“If you need help on the Potomac docks with unloading a shipment, I can gather some men—”
Davis chuckled. “No, the shipment will not arrive by the river.”
“Then at the train depot—”
Now Davis laughed, and Stephens with him. “Mr. Bishop, the shipment will not arrive by river, and it will not arrive by rail. Or even by road. Let’s leave it at that. I do not seek your assistance with the shipment. Not now, anyway. We can meet again tomorrow night. Good day, sir.”
Rook nodded and rose from his chair. He walked straight for the door and was gone from the hotel within a few seconds. Davis and Stephens watched him depart.
“I thought we were going to be gone by tomorrow night,” said Stephens. “I hope you don’t mean to change our plans.”
“Of course not. I suspect Bishop himself may not even make the meeting we’ve just arranged. There will be so much commotion in this city tomorrow night, nothing will go as intended. If Bishop is smart, he will realize what has happened and who is responsible. He can show up here if he wants, but he’ll wait a long time before he sees either of us again. We’ll be miles away, and Washington will be gripped by terror.”
A few feet away, Clark continued to stare at the pages of his newspaper. He heard every word.
“Sally, what would you like to discuss?” asked Bennett.
“It’s about my son, Joe. He’s the one everybody calls Big Joe.”
“Of course,” said Bennett, his interest suddenly aroused. “I know Big Joe. He is a fine young man, with a solid reputation around here. Mr. Tate praises him quite highly.”
“He’s very good, Mr. Bennett. Even when he was a little boy, he was very good, always listenin’ to his mother. He never gave me any trouble. Never! You don’t always see that around here.”
“I know what you mean. I can’t think of a single time Joe has given us any difficulty. I must say, though, there have been some questions raised about him this very day.”
Sally broke eye contact with Bennett. She had been looking straight at him, but now she gazed at the ground.
“Mr. Bennett, I don’t want you to hurt him.”
“Is there something I should know?”
Her eyes were back on him, and Bennett saw that they had started to fill with tears.
“Mr. Bennett, please tell me you ain’t gonna hurt him.”
“Oh, Sally,” said Bennett, trying to achieve a comforting tone in his voice. He put his arm around her. “I don’t want to hurt anybody, but I don’t think I can promise anything until you tell me what you know.”
“Maybe there’s one thing you can promise me,” she said as she pulled up her apron and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Please don’t do to him what you did to Sammy last fall. You remember Sammy? He’s Roberta’s boy.”
Bennett had to think for a moment. He did recall Sammy—a real troublemaker who required the constant attention of an overseer before he would do any work. It was quite a shame too, because Sammy was a strong one who might have made a contribution to the farm if only he had put his mind to it. But when he ran off and hid in the woods last year—and then Tate caught him two weeks later stealing chickens from one of the coops, after several had already disappeared—that was the end of it. Bennett ordered him put up for auction. Sammy was sold to a buyer from Georgia for a bit less than what Bennett thought he should have gotten, but he was glad to be rid of the problem. Attitudes like Sammy’s had a way of spreading like a contagious disease if they were not confronted, he believed. Sometimes a plantation master must set a clear example, even at the cost of breaking up families.
“Yes, I do remember Sammy,” said Bennett, at last.
“Please tell me you won’t sell Joe! It just broke Roberta’s heart when Sammy left. I don’t know how I could go on if Joe were to leave.”
“It sounds to me as though he may have left already.”
“Yes,” sniffled Sally. “I do believe he has.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“Oh, Mr. Bennett, I just want him back. Please just bring him back to me. I promise you, I’ll give him a good, hard talking to the way only his mother can! He won’t leave again! Please just bring him back and tell me you won’t sell him off!”
She was sobbing now, and Bennett gave her a moment to collect herself.
“Sally, don’t worry about Joe getting sold. Sammy’s situation was very different from Joe’s. I’ll be honest with you. When we get Joe back, we’re going to have to deal with him in some fashion. I don’t know what that will be. It will depend on what happens between now and then. It may also depend on how much you cooperate with us. The fact that you are speaking to me right now, however, is a great comfort. I want to get Joe back too. In all my years of running this plantation, I have learned one thing about runaways—they’re best caught early. The longer they stay missing, the harder they are to find. So it’s important to get started on this immediately. Perhaps you can help me figure out where he’s headed. I received a report this morning that he might be going to the Wilson farm. Does he know anybody there? Maybe there’s a girl he wants to see. He’s at that age, you know.”
“There’s a girl, all right, Mr. Bennett. But she ain’t one of Mr. Wilson’s.”
“This is a good beginning, Sally. Come with me inside the house. We can sit down and relax. Then you can tell me everything you know.”
They went into the dining room of the manor and sat at the table. It occurred to Sally that she had been in this room only a couple of times in her whole life, and certainly not to sit down with Bennett. When one of the house servants asked Bennett if he would like something to drink, she was astonished to hear him ask her if she wanted something too. A minute later, a pair of tall glasses of iced tea rested before them. It was the most delicious drink Sally thought she had ever tasted. She did not know what to say, and Bennett initially saved her from saying anything at all.
“There you go, Sally. Make yourself comfortable and tell me your story.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bennett. I’m gonna tell you everything.”
“Please do.”
“Yesterday morning, I was cooking in the kitchen, like I do almost every day. I started feeling a little queasy. I don’t know why, I just did. Margaret told me to go lay down and she would cover for me. So I did. I was there in my bed for about twenty minutes and already startin’ to feel better when I heard Joe through the window. He was talkin’ to someone, a woman who was beggin’ him to run off with her. I listened for a spell. She said her grandfather wanted her to deliver some kind of photograph to Mr. Lincoln in Washington.”
“A photograph?”
“You know, one of those real-life pictures?”
“I know what a photograph is,” said Bennett. “But I’m puzzled why someone of your class would care about one.”
“It sounded so crazy, Mr. Bennett, I hardly believed it. But that’s what they were talkin’ about—gettin’ all the way to Washington. Joe wasn’t saying yes, but he wasn’t saying no. I ran outside and broke them up. Joe wouldn’t promise me that he wasn’t going to run away. He kept sayin’ that he had to get back to work before Mr. Tate wondered a
bout him. I finally got him to promise that he wasn’t going anywhere, but I wasn’t sure he was tellin’ the truth. I think he was just tryin’ to put me off. He avoided me the rest of the day, and then I didn’t see him at all last night or this morning. I do believe he’s gone, Mr. Bennett, and I just wanna get him back here where I know he’s safe.”
This took a moment to absorb. Bennett took a sip from his drink and set it back on the table.
“First of all, Sally, thank you very much. Your cooperation is very helpful. With it, I’m certain we’ll get Joe back soon.”
Sally perked up at this. She was gratified by Bennett’s response. He did not seem angry. That possibility had worried her. She always thought Bennett was a good master—better than all the other ones in these parts. But she had seen him mad too, and even the best masters could be cruel.
“I do have a few questions, Sally.”
“Yes?”
He tried to comfort her with a smile, but the anger inside him was mounting and the effort strained.
“Who was the woman you heard talking to Joe?”
“It was Portia.”
Bennett felt his rage begin to swell. The pleasant demeanor he had tried to present to Sally vanished as he barked out more questions.
“Did either Joe or Portia mention the Wilson farm?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Did they discuss how they intended to get to Washington?”
“I didn’t hear nothin’ about that.”
“And they planned to take a photograph to Mr. Lincoln?” He spit out the name with obvious distaste.
“Yes, Mr. Bennett.”
“Do you know what was in this photograph?”
“From the way it sounded, it was a picture of a person. Someone who was gonna hurt Mr. Lincoln.”
“Did you see the photograph?”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t they have it?”
“No, sir.”
“Damn it, Sally, what do you know?”
The slave woman lowered her head. She began to shake with sobbing. Bennett knew he was pushing her hard. He had done a good job of winning this woman’s trust, and now he saw it slipping away. His mind faulted his approach. Yet he was too furious to stop. He forged ahead.
The First Assassin Page 15