The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  “Sally, look at me!” he shouted. He saw the tears in her eyes when she lifted her face. “Where was the photograph when you overheard them?”

  “Someone else had it.”

  “Who?”

  Sally looked away from Bennett. She knew he would not welcome the answer. At this point, though, she had made her decision to confide in him. She could hardly hide it.

  “Lucius.”

  Bennett shot up from the table and thrust his chair backward with such force that it gouged the wall behind him. In the same motion, he grabbed his walking stick, which had been resting against the table, and let out a roar. His eyes fell on the half-full drink in front of him. He raised his cane and whacked the glass. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spraying across the room. Sally screamed and covered her face in her hands as several house servants hurried into the room. Bennett pointed to one of them. “Get me Tate!” he growled. The slave immediately sprinted out of the manor.

  Bennett gripped his cane in both hands now, so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his hands trembled. Then he stumbled out of the dining room, pushing one of the slaves out of his way as he lurched into the foyer and then through the front door and onto the porch. He started pacing back and forth. His peg leg pounded against the boards like a hammer.

  Sally staggered out a moment later. She fell to her knees in front of Bennett and clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “Please don’t hurt my Joe, Mr. Bennett! Please don’t hurt him!”

  Bennett stopped in front of her and picked up his cane. For a dreadful few seconds he held it there, as if he were thinking about bashing it into her. Sally shut her eyes, expecting the blow.

  “Get up,” he ordered at last. Sally rose to her feet. “Get out of here.”

  As Sally ran down the steps crying hysterically, Tate raced toward the manor. In a minute, he was on the porch in front of Bennett. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bennett?”

  “We have two runaways, Tate, and also a conspirator who’s still on the farm.”

  “Big Joe and Portia?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who did they leave behind?” Tate asked. The corners of his mouth turned upwards ever so slightly. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in this development.

  “Lucius.” Bennett could hardly have spoken the name with more venom.

  “I will gladly take care of him,” said Tate, beginning to unfasten the whip at his side.

  “No, I will handle him,” said Bennett. “Come with me.”

  The two men walked through the front door and made their way to Bennett’s study. The old plantation master sat down at his desk and scribbled a short note. He handed it to Tate.

  “Have this delivered to Mr. Hughes right away. I’m asking him to rush over here as soon as possible. Then fetch Lucius. Take him to the shed. I will be there shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tate turned to go, but Bennett stopped him. “One more thing, Mr. Tate,” said Bennett, pointing to the lash dangling from Tate’s hip. “That’s the least thing Lucius needs to worry about.”

  In Lafayette Park, about ten blocks from Brown’s Hotel, Rook wondered how long it would take for Clark to arrive. They had agreed to meet here, and the colonel grew anxious about being out of uniform for so long. It was the middle of the afternoon. He would have to blaze through his rounds.

  He sat beneath the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson mounted on a rearing horse. Many people believed that Jackson was the best man the country had produced since Washington. Rook knew that Scott was no admirer, but it was hard to avoid regarding Jackson as anything but a hero. As a general during the War of 1812, he saved the country’s honor by winning the Battle of New Orleans. Then he became president and opposed South Carolina in the first secession crisis, a generation before the current one. Rook thought that the country needed a new leader like Jackson, someone who could rally the South for union. Looking at the White House, he wondered whether Lincoln had what it would take. He was not optimistic.

  Clark came into sight as he passed the State Department on the corner of Fifteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. He took a seat on the bench beside Rook.

  “Whatever they’re planning to do,” said Clark, “they’re planning to do it before tomorrow night.” He described what he had heard following Rook’s departure.

  “This is strange,” replied Rook. “We’re missing a piece. The thing that really gnaws at me is the comment about how the shipment is supposed to get here. It won’t arrive by river, rail, or road? That’s doesn’t make any sense. It’s like a riddle.”

  “It’s as if he wants us to think something will fall from the sky. His comment makes me wonder whether there really is a shipment at all. Maybe he was trying to throw you off.”

  “There’s more to this. Davis is too satisfied by his own cleverness. He and his men are leaving clues all over the place, from their false names to where they go and what they say. They’re convinced that they can fool us.”

  Rook didn’t give voice to his next thought: And so far, they are succeeding.

  Tucker Hughes galloped hard to the Bennett manor. It was difficult to see in the dark, but he knew the roads well. When he turned onto the lane leading to Bennett’s home, he spurred the beast into a full dash, like a cavalry soldier charging an enemy line. The horse’s speed exhilarated him. So did the uncertainty behind the summons. Bennett had never requested his presence as urgently as he had in the note Hughes still carried in his pocket. He pulled up just short of the front porch. Hughes was not even off the horse when a pair of slaves appeared out of nowhere to take the reins. Tate was right behind them, holding a torch.

  “Is Bennett in his study?” asked Hughes as he dismounted.

  “No. He’s down in the shed.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “A little disciplining. Come with me.”

  The two men walked briskly. They passed the kitchen and then went between two rows of small buildings. Soon they descended into a small hollow. Hughes heard the groans before he saw the shed. The sound was jarring, and Hughes only recognized it as human because he had heard it before, on his own plantation. It was the animal noise of deep pain, a strange mix of moans and whimpers. Bennett shouted something, but the only words Hughes could make out were “betrayal” and “traitor.” Then came the sound of a whip whooshing through the air and ripping into flesh, followed by a miserable yelp and more of Bennett’s yells.

  Tate halted outside the door. “Let’s wait here a few minutes.”

  The shed was not a shed at all. That was just what everyone called it. It was actually one of the older buildings on the farm, a brick structure that had gone up decades earlier, when the first generation of Bennetts came to this place. It had been used for storing tools and other equipment until Bennett’s father replaced it with some of the newer buildings closer to the manor. It had remained in disrepair ever since, even as it gained a new use: this was where Bennett and the overseers meted out punishments to slaves. If somebody on the Bennett plantation was “taken to the shed,” it meant he was beaten here.

  “Why is Bennett doing this himself?” asked Hughes.

  “He’s mighty upset about something,” replied Tate. “I never thought I’d see him do this to Lucius.”

  “Lucius?” Hughes was stunned. “He likes that slave more than he likes a lot of white people.”

  “I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

  The door of the shed flew open, and Bennett stomped out. Inside, Hughes could see Lucius on his knees, with both wrists held above his head and chained to an iron ring mounted on a post. It almost looked as though he were genuflecting, except that he was obviously slumped over. He was breathing, so he was still alive. Yet his neck and back were streaked with blood. Hughes knew something of whippings, and this looked like a thorough one.

  “What took you so long?” barked Bennett when he saw Hughes.

  “Good evening to you too, Langston.”

 
“We have a big problem here,” snapped Bennett, ambling by Hughes and Tate and heading toward the house. The two younger men fell in beside him.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Two of my slaves have run off, and they’ve got something we need. That turncoat Lucius told me everything.”

  Hughes waited for an explanation, but Bennett did not elaborate. They walked back to the manor. Bennett stopped in front of it.

  “It is of the greatest urgency that we track down the two fugitives,” said Bennett. He pointed at Tate. “You may do nothing more important for me during your employment here than this. In fact, if you succeed in this task, I will double your salary for the next three months.”

  “You can count on me,” said Tate.

  “Unfortunately, I’m afraid we don’t have time to organize a whole party. The two of you will have to leave immediately.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Tate.

  “I didn’t think so. Now, Mr. Tate, I would like a word with Mr. Hughes.”

  “I’ll need a few minutes to get the dogs.” The overseer hurried away.

  “I’m confused,” said Hughes. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “The runaways—Portia and Big Joe—have a photograph of Mazorca in their possession.”

  “What?”

  “You must get it back.”

  “Lucius told you this?”

  “No. Somebody else told me. But Lucius confirmed it. He actually helped take the picture in Charleston, the day we met with Mazorca.”

  Hughes didn’t reply. Bennett just glared at him, making sure Hughes understood what it meant: this trouble might have been avoided entirely but for the photography session that Hughes had arranged.

  “How did he do it?” asked Hughes.

  “The details hardly matter. Suffice it to say they have a photo, and we must get it back. I don’t care if you catch them or kill them—just get that photo back.”

  “It’s against the law to kill a slave.”

  Bennett shot him a nasty look. “Just get me that photo. I don’t care how you do it.”

  “Are you certain that Portia and Big Joe are traveling together?”

  “Yes. They’re on horses headed for Charleston. Lucius says he doesn’t know what they’ll do when they reach the city—or if he does know, he isn’t saying. But that’s where they’re going. That ought to give you enough information to find them.”

  For a moment, Hughes said nothing. He was thinking about Portia and his recent encounter with her.

  “You mentioned Portia. Is she the one—?”

  “Yes. She’s the one you offered to purchase from me only two days ago. If you catch her, you can keep her and do with her as you please.”

  Hughes smiled. “I may very well do that.”

  Just then, Tate arrived with the dogs. Bennett’s overseer was an experienced slave catcher. There were a few professionals in the area, and Bennett had hired them from time to time. But Tate was their equal on the chase. Hughes knew what he was doing too. He had once remarked to Bennett that chasing runaways was like a sport to him. “No other hunting compares to it,” he had said. “I never grow bored with it, for the quarry has courage and cunning. Runaways are the most exciting game—the most dangerous game.”

  When they set off, Bennett walked into the manor and went to his study. He looked at the clock. It was a few minutes to midnight—much later than he liked to be awake. He sat down at his desk and took out a piece of stationery. He wrote in a clear cursive and left wide spaces between the lines.

  April 19

  Dear Violet,

  Please accept my apologies for waiting so long to write since my last letter. The developments in Charleston have kept me busy. I am quite hopeful for the future, though.

  Do you remember Lucius, my old manservant? I’m sorry to report he has recently suffered a terrible bout of something—it’s so hard to say what—and may not last the night. I will miss him so.

  Sincerely,

  Langston Bennett

  When Bennett finished composing these words, he put down his pen and ran his fingers along the left-hand side of his desk. They paused about halfway across and then pulled on something. It was a hidden compartment. Among the items Bennett removed from the little drawer was a tiny brass key. He set it on the edge of the desk. Next he touched up the letter he had just written, addressed an envelope to Violet Grenier in Washington, and sealed the letter inside. In the morning, he would order a rider to take it to the postmaster.

  Then he took the small key and unlocked a drawer to his right, on the front of the desk. He put the key back in its hidden compartment and opened the drawer he had just unlocked. He reached inside and pulled out a pistol. He turned it in his hand and admired its design. Then he opened the chamber to confirm that it was loaded.

  About ten minutes later, everybody on the Bennett plantation heard a single shot echo through the night. It came from the vicinity of the shed.

  ELEVEN

  SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1861

  Mazorca had wanted to look inside the narrow brick house at 398 Sixteenth Street, but the pair of first-floor windows was too high off the ground and the shutters were closed anyway. If he had not known better, he might have assumed that the house was locked and abandoned, like so many others in Washington. But about an hour earlier he had watched its two occupants descend the steps and walk toward Lafayette Park. Mazorca then slipped into an alley about halfway down the block. A door in the back was locked, but a window next to it was not. Mazorca pulled himself through and began to inspect the three-story home.

  Now that he was in, he wanted to look back out. He went to one of the tall windows on the front of the house, pushed the shutter slats open, and peeked through. A carriage rolled by on Sixteenth Street. Across the street sat St. John’s Church, a yellow building with Doric columns. He glanced to his right, across Lafayette Park. Mazorca knew that President Lincoln’s mansion lay within rifle range, at least for a very good marksman, but the angle from here was too severe to see much of it. It was not a good view.

  Upstairs, he searched a library and several bedrooms. A curled-up cat slept on one of the beds. It looked surprised to see him, but not so alarmed that it failed to fall back asleep a few minutes later. Mazorca checked the view to the south from the windows on these top floors. As he expected, their lines of sight were no better.

  In the library, stacks of correspondence indicated the woman living in the house was a prolific letter writer, or at least a person who received many letters in the mail. A large collection of maps suggested an interest in cartography, except that they were all local and many were marked. If there really was an interest, it was not academic.

  Mazorca did not read any of the letters or study the maps. Instead he returned to the red-walled front parlor and sat down in the tête-à-tête, positioning himself in the part of the S-shaped couch that faced the doorway. The room did not let in much light with the shutters closed, so at first he just sat there. He did not want to turn on the gas lamp beside him.

  Patience was a virtue in his line of work. The prospect of sitting in the parlor an hour or two did not bother him. He was only a few minutes into his wait, however, when he decided to reach for a pair of books resting on a table next to his seat. He had noticed them earlier, but their spines were turned away and he could not see their titles. Pulling them into his lap, he opened to their title pages: A Treatise on Field Fortifications by Dennis Hart Mahan and the first volume of Infantry Tactics by Winfield Scott.

  He returned the Mahan book to its place and began to read the one by Scott. He hoped it might provide some insight into the mind of this legendary general, but the book was a dry text for military officers. Mazorca had an interest in these matters, however, and decided to pass the time with Scott’s thoughts on drills, maneuvers, and drum signals. He adjusted the book to catch what dim light came in from the shuttered window. As he flipped through its pages, however, his own
thoughts kept drifting back to the question of why a woman—and one described to him as a socialite, no less—would choose to read the words of Mahan and Scott. It was a peculiar pursuit, even in these troubled times.

  An hour later, Mazorca heard shoes scraping on steps outside the front door. He put the Scott book back on the table. A key scratched against a lock and found the keyhole. The door squeaked back on hinges that needed oiling. It let in a blinding light but was shut almost immediately. Mazorca could see clearly again in the shadowy room. Someone had entered. He watched her from just a few feet away. She was by herself and did not see him.

  Grenier stood by the door and let her eyes adjust to the poor light. Mazorca could not tell when she first saw him. She did not jump in surprise or even flinch slightly. Instead, she just cocked her head to one side, trying to recognize the uninvited guest who sat cross-legged on her couch. Her composure was remarkable.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Grenier.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “We haven’t met.”

  “You’ve chosen an odd way to make my acquaintance, sir.”

  “These are odd days, Mrs. Grenier.”

  “And you appear to be an odd man. I would like to know what you’re doing in my house.”

  Mazorca rose from his seat slowly. He did not want to appear threatening, even though Grenier seemed unusually difficult to startle. From a pocket on the inside of his coat, he removed an envelope and held it out. “This may answer your question,” he said.

  She did not reach for it. She did not even look at it. Instead she simply stared at Mazorca as he stood with his arm outstretched. Then she took a couple of steps to his side. Her eyes roamed up and down. She noticed his ear but said nothing. She was taking his measure.