The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  “Joe!” said Portia. She wanted to think they had found a friend.

  “Our lives are at stake, Portia.”

  She frowned. “I think we can trust him—or else why would he have led us here?”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Joe picked up a skipping stone and whisked it into the stream. It bounced three times and sank. He tossed a few more without better results. Then he and Portia decided to rest. They would need to save their energy. They would leave again at dark, whether or not Jeremiah returned.

  As he approached Lafayette Park, Springfield yawned. He wanted a cup of coffee. Across the park, about a city block away, was Grenier’s home on Sixteenth Street. When it came into view, he did not expect to see anything. To his surprise, the door opened and a man stepped out.

  Springfield looked away quickly. He was in uniform for a change and did not want to be seen staring, even from a distance. He slowed his pace and strained to keep the man in his peripheral vision. Was it one of the fellows from yesterday? Springfield hoped so, if for no other reason than it would provide him with new information for Rook.

  Grenier’s visitor walked in the same direction as Springfield, but on H Street, which bounded the park on its north side. As the man reached the edge of the park, where it touched Vermont Avenue, Springfield shifted into pursuit. He remained about half a block behind the man, who stayed on H Street as he passed Fifteenth Street, Fourteenth, Thirteenth, and kept going.

  Seeing the man only from behind, Springfield could not get a good view of him—except to become certain that he was not one of those who had visited Grenier a day earlier. He was sandy haired and clean shaven. To get a better view, Springfield walked to catch up and soon was about twenty feet behind the man. He crossed Twelfth Street, Eleventh, and Tenth at a steady pace. At Eighth Street, he turned his head, and Springfield saw the man’s face in profile. He did not recognize it, but he knew he would not forget it: the man’s right ear was half missing.

  Grenier’s visitor kept moving, now across Seventh Street. Before arriving at Sixth Street, however, he slowed down and entered a building on his right. Springfield had dropped back from his closest approach and could not tell what it was. He lingered at the corner of Seventh and H Street, waiting to see if the man would come out again. After about five minutes, Springfield decided to proceed down H Street. He made certain to note the building in question. It was a boardinghouse, addressed 604 H Street.

  At Sixth Street, Springfield turned to the right and took about a dozen steps before stopping. The boardinghouse was around the corner and out of sight. He thought about what to do next. Rook had wanted to meet near Brown’s, but should he stick around, trying to learn more about Grenier’s guest?

  It occurred to him that the only reason this new visitor to the Grenier residence intrigued him was the fact that yesterday she had received different visitors whom Rook had regarded as potentially significant. Was there any connection between the two? He had no basis for thinking so.

  He walked south on Sixth Street, in the direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. On the way, Springfield thought about coffee.

  It was late afternoon when the sound of Jeremiah wading through the stream woke Portia and Joe. He arrived with a pot of stew in a satchel. He sat as they ate, and then he cleaned the pot in the stream.

  “I’ve got one more thing for you,” he said. “Grave dust.”

  Portia and Joe knew immediately what he was talking about. Some slaves believed that wiping feet with cemetery soil—grave dust—removed all traces of scent and made it impossible for dogs or trackers to continue a search. The runaways watched Jeremiah pull a bag from the satchel. It was full of dry, gray dirt.

  Joe looked at Portia. “Do you believe in this?”

  “One time I asked my grandfather if ghosts were real.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Don’t pretend that such things can’t be.’”

  Portia took a handful of grave dust and wiped it on her feet and legs. She smiled at Joe, who was not sure whether she was doing this for their benefit or Jeremiah’s. The boy certainly seemed to view the grave dust with great seriousness. He had saved it for last—after leading them to the hideout, after giving them food. It was his parting gift. Joe thought that perhaps he should take some just as a courtesy.

  Suddenly in the distance, the three slaves heard a sound that made them shiver: barking.

  “Well, I’m ready to become a believer,” said Joe, reaching for the bag of grave dust. “We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

  When Rook wanted to concentrate on a difficult problem, he liked to go for a stroll—not to a quiet place, but a noisy one. For whatever reason, the commotion of a crowd encouraged fresh thinking. And so he found himself at Center Market, the busiest commercial hub in the city. It was a sprawling structure that took up two entire blocks on the south side of Pennsylvania Avenue between Seventh and Ninth streets. Farmers and fishermen from across the region descended on it every morning before sunrise to sell their wares. Rook walked beside dozens of wagon stands outside the building, only half aware of the salesmen shouting their prices and the customers who haggled with them.

  It did not hurt that Center Market was near Brown’s Hotel—the site of the puzzle that had vexed him since the previous afternoon, and where Springfield and Clark were monitoring Davis and Stephens. Not by rail, river, or road. What could it possibly mean?

  Rook wandered down the market’s crowded aisles, trying to ignore the overpowering stench of fish that came from the stalls piled high with bass and shad from the Potomac. Sellers stocked all kinds of food—venison, ducks, turkeys, oysters, and lots of vegetables—but the smell of fish drifted through the whole building.

  He wondered whether he was right to defy Scott’s orders. In a strict military sense, of course, he was in the wrong—it was always wrong to disobey a direct order from a superior officer. Yet Rook was convinced that Scott’s judgment was mistaken. It bordered on dereliction of duty. The old general simply did not take the president’s protection as seriously as he should. Rook was certain Davis and Stephens were up to something. He could not prove it in a court of law or to the satisfaction of Scott, but he had no doubt.

  Reaching the end of a row of wagon stands, Rook found himself at Seventh Street—and with a clear view of Brown’s Hotel. A horse-drawn omnibus waited outside the hotel as it took on several passengers. This was a popular form of transportation up and down the Avenue, between Capitol Hill and Georgetown. When the horse started pulling, Rook made a sharp right-hand turn into Center Market itself, where nobody on the street would be able to spot him.

  Not by rail, river, or road. Didn’t Davis mention a “shipment”? He might have used a different word, such as “load” or “delivery” or “consignment.” But he said shipment. That would suggest a cargo arriving on a ship, which meant over water, which meant by river. Yet Davis seemed to rule out that possibility. Rook told himself not to get snared in semantic games. Shipments might mean anything, even goods transported by train. He started to wonder. Maybe Davis and Stephens were playing games with him. Perhaps Scott was right, and it was all just a waste of time.

  At the rear of the market, where a number of the seafood sellers kept their stalls, Rook found himself watching an old man train a boy in the art of fish cleaning—chopping off the head and fins, removing the guts, scraping the scales. It reminded him of a similar lesson his grandfather had taught him many years earlier. He watched with amusement as the boy struggled to perform the sloppy chore his employer could complete in a matter of seconds.

  Not by rail, river, or road. The riddle forced its way back into his thoughts. Was there a way the shipment could arrive by land but not by road? Suddenly, a shout caught his attention.

  “Colonel!”

  Rook saw Springfield trotting toward him from the front of the building.

  “What’s the news, Sergeant?”

  “Davis and Stephen
s boarded an omnibus a few minutes ago. Corporal Clark got on with them.”

  “Do we know where they’re going?”

  “They were headed toward Georgetown.”

  “I don’t suppose you were able to communicate with Clark.”

  “Actually, I was. He nodded to me, very faintly—and he did not give the signal that he needed anybody to trail behind. I assume he’s just going to follow them around. We’ll get a report when he returns.”

  “If we had more men assigned to this operation, we would be able to send a whole team after them.”

  “At least one man is better than none.”

  “True. Perhaps Clark will come back with more information. I just can’t get Davis and Stephens out of my mind. They are an enigma.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “This business about rails, rivers, and roads confounds me. How can something possibly arrive here if it doesn’t come by rail, river, or road?”

  “It’s quite a riddle, sir. In a lot of other cities, it wouldn’t be much of a problem. But here it’s a stumper.”

  Rook arched his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “I was thinking about this. Most of the cities on the East Coast aren’t on rivers, or at least not ones that link them to the rest of the world. They’re beside harbors or bays or other bodies of water. Boats come and go without ever touching rivers. Give me that same riddle in New York or Baltimore and the answer is easy—so easy it isn’t even a riddle.”

  “That had not occurred to me,” said Rook. “Of course, it’s academic.”

  “Right. In this city, a boat must come up the river to get here.”

  Something in that sentence caught Rook’s ear. He repeated it in his mind: A boat has to come up the river to get here. “The same thing is not true in some other cities,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take a place like New York City,” offered Rook. “You’re right that most of its water traffic comes from the harbor. Not all of it, though. Some actually comes down the Hudson River. So lots of boats must reach that city by river—they come not from the ocean, but the interior of the country.”

  “I suppose that’s correct.”

  “But it’s academic too. The Potomac is not navigable much past Georgetown. Even if it were, it would still be a river—and we would be no nearer to solving this riddle.”

  Their conversation sputtered to a halt. They looked at the two fish cleaners, the old teacher and his young student. They had just created a stack of filets. A mound of leftover fish parts sat in front of them.

  “Customers don’t want to see that,” said the man, pointing to the heap of heads and guts. “We need to get it out of sight.” He pushed the mess into a bucket with his knife. “This is full,” he said, grabbing the bucket’s handle and giving it to the boy.

  “Carry it around back.”

  The youngster took the bucket and left the stall. He passed in front of Rook and Springfield and walked through an open door. Sunlight fell on his head. He stopped in plain sight of the two soldiers, lifted the bucket, and dumped its contents, which splashed beneath his feet. Then the boy turned around and came back in, swinging his empty bucket.

  “Do you have the same thought as me?” asked Rook.

  Now it was Springfield who arched his eyebrows.

  “Let’s go!”

  The dogs were getting closer.

  Portia and Joe splashed down the stream, running with the current. They moved as quickly as they could. “Don’t let your feet touch the bank on either side,” warned Portia. The temptation to get out was strong. The water sucked at their heels with each step, making their run twice as strenuous as it would be on dry land. Yet the barking propelled them forward. Each yap was like the prick of a spur.

  Jeremiah was still with them, but they knew he would not be for long. “Get in the water,” he had yelled when they first heard the dogs. Portia had lost all track of time. Had their run started five minutes ago—or half an hour ago? She wasn’t sure and didn’t care. All she wanted was to get away from the dogs. The little brook seemed their single hope—the only thing that might cover their scent and keep them free just a little bit longer.

  They could not tell how much ground lay between them and their pursuers. The trees and rocks played tricks with the sound and made it impossible to know. For a time, Portia had thought they might actually get away. The barking remained faint. Then it erupted. Then it stopped completely. For a while they heard nothing. The slaves even stopped racing at one point to listen, and the only sound they heard came from the trickling water of the creek. Portia’s hopes rose, only to crash minutes later when the barking started again—and grew steadily louder. “They must’ve paused at our hideout,” panted Joe.

  When they reached a small meadow perhaps half a mile later, Jeremiah halted them. “This is where we gotta split up,” he said. “You gotta go your way, and I gotta go mine. There’s nothin’ more I can do for you.”

  “You gotta promise not to say nothing about us,” said Portia.

  “I ain’t gonna do that. If I did, everybody would know I helped you. I’m gonna say that I ain’t never seen you.”

  “OK, and we won’t say nothin’ about you if we’re caught.”

  “Here’s what you gotta do: keep runnin’ down the stream. After a while, get out and rush away as fast as you can. Don’t leave no footprints in the mud. If we’re lucky, the dogs can’t smell us now—they’re runnin’ along the banks trying to pick up a trail they’ve lost. You gotta hope they miss you and keep on going. Then you can get back on the road tonight.”

  Somewhere behind them, the barking continued.

  Jeremiah looked over his shoulder. “No more time for talk,” he said. “Good-bye.” He leaped out of the water onto a log. He walked its length away from the creek and took a big jump into the woods. Then he was gone. Portia looked intently but could see no physical evidence of Jeremiah having left the creek.

  “I guess that’s how it’s done,” said Joe.

  The two slaves resumed their flight. For a while, the dogs did not seem to gain on them. Then the barking became noticeably louder. Suddenly Portia stopped. Joe nearly collided into her.

  “We gotta do something,” she gasped.

  “They’re gonna be at least a few minutes behind us. We should keep runnin’. No time for restin’.”

  “If we keep runnin’, they’re gonna catch us. We gotta get away from the river. We gotta make a move.”

  Joe saw Portia looking at a tree that had fallen into the streambed. Once it had stood tall, and now it lay long. The trunk had cracked near its base, but somehow the tree remained alive. Several young branches reached upward.

  “OK, we’ll do it here,” said Joe. “Jeremiah left on a log. That’s what we’ll do.”

  Portia put a foot on the tree and was about to lift herself up when Joe stopped her.

  “There’s one thing I gotta ask you, and I’m only gonna do it once,” he said. “Those dogs are bad news if they’re set loose. I don’t wanna see you hurt by one of them. We can still give ourselves up and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “No way, Joe. They’re gonna have to catch us.”

  “All right then,” he said, helping her onto the trunk.

  A moment later, they were both out of the water and darting through the woods.

  Rook and Springfield sprinted out of Center Market and to the Winder Building. Ten blocks later, they arrived short of breath. “I hope this is worth it,” huffed Rook as they waited for a private to retrieve their horses. “If their shipment isn’t coming by rail, river, or road, then it must be coming by that canal.”

  “The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal.”

  “That’s right. Washington gets almost all of its coal from barges on the C&O, plus lots of grain and lumber.”

  “What if Davis and Stephens are just picking up a few sacks of coal?” asked Springfield.

  “I can’t believe that’s
what they’re doing. It must be something else. Maybe they have a shipment of guns coming in. The canal goes right by Harper’s Ferry and the federal armory there.”

  “Didn’t I hear something about Harper’s Ferry?”

  “Virginia troops seized control of it yesterday. Davis and Stephens would have needed some kind of collaborator up there a couple of days before that, assuming they are in fact carrying weapons down from Harper’s Ferry.”

  “It would certainly explain why they’re being so secretive. Maybe they’re trying to arm rebels in the city, thinking they can pitch in if Virginia marches on Washington next.”

  The private emerged from the rear of the building, leading both horses over to Rook and Springfield.

  “The only thing it doesn’t explain is their ‘scouting mission’ of the Capitol,” said Rook as he and Springfield mounted. “If Davis and Stephens were trying to arm an underground militia, why would they roam around the Capitol and ask about where to make food deliveries?”

  “They could be planning an assault and wanted to become familiar with the building’s layout and see where the soldiers were staying. They might have been counting soldiers too. The questions about food may have been their excuse for being there.”

  “I think there’s more to it. I just don’t know what.”

  Borne by their horses, they started north on Seventeenth Street, turned left on the Avenue, and took it to M Street. There they crossed the bridge over Rock Creek. Georgetown was on the other side. The busy thoroughfare of Bridge Street lay before them. As they passed an omnibus heading in the opposite direction, Rook slowed his horse and signaled Springfield to do the same.

  “Let’s not call attention to ourselves,” said the colonel, speaking over the sound of hooves as they clattered against the hard surface of the bridge. “How far do you figure we’re behind them?”

  “Fifteen minutes or so.”

  The two soldiers rode a couple of blocks into Georgetown, dismounted, and tied their mounts to a post beside a store. Then they walked south on one of the streets intersecting Bridge. In a minute, they reached the end of the C&O Canal, the terminal point of a commercial waterway that began almost two hundred miles upstream.