The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  She sat down in a spot where she could keep a watch on the road and the plantation but where nobody was likely to see her. It felt good to get off her feet. She removed her shoes and noticed the blisters for the first time. If she walked much further, she thought, they might force her to stop.

  Portia reached into her pocket and removed the photograph her grandfather had given her. Was Joe’s life worth this little picture? The thought of Joe brought tears to her eyes. She had managed not to think of him much since he had told her to leave. Now the memory of him closing his eyes forever made her shake with sorrow. Then she welled up with anger. Holding the photograph in her hands, she thought about ripping it into pieces. She imagined herself doing it.

  Then she remembered the last thing Joe had said to her: “Go.” He knew the stakes. He knew the risks. He did not want comfort as he drew his final breaths. He did not want her to make a heroic last stand. He wanted her to go on. She had started this journey because of her grandfather. Now she would finish it because of Joe.

  Portia was still undecided about whether to walk in the daylight or to get some rest when she heard the sound of a horse-drawn wagon rolling down the road. It came into view through the trees a moment later. A black man drove it, pulling a load of burlap sacks. He was probably a slave on his way to Charleston for the Monday market. She wondered how long it would take him to get there. How nice it would be to hitch a ride. She could get to the city without maiming her feet any further and perhaps even shut her eyes for a spell.

  Portia never understood why she did it—the chance of being noticed seemed too great—but she rose from her spot as the wagon passed. A moment later, she fell in behind the cart, placed her hand on its back end, and kept pace for twenty or thirty feet. When it hit a pothole and bounced, Portia threw herself onto the pile of bags. She studied the driver. He did not move. The wagon continued on its leisurely course. Portia wiggled beneath a few of the bags, which were full of rice. She adjusted several of them and settled into a hiding spot that was not exactly comfortable, but it would do. Her aching feet felt better almost right away. And then she closed her eyes.

  Walking through Lafayette Park in the morning sun, Mazorca decided there would be nothing tentative about his visit to the president’s house. He would stride up the driveway, pass the guards under the portico, and enter the building like someone with legitimate business there. If anybody asked, he would say that he was seeking an appointment with the president. That was even sort of true.

  Scouting the White House on the previous day had convinced him he could get in without raising suspicions. Perhaps the security on the inside was tighter than what he had seen on the outside. Perhaps he would have access only to a couple of the big rooms on the first floor. There was one way to find out. He had many basic decisions to make over the next few days—choices about when, where, and how. What he needed now was information to help him make these decisions. These details could not be found in books or conversations.

  As Mazorca crossed Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House, he watched a group of Jim Lane’s men assemble on the front lawn. There were a good number of them, and they looked like a ragged bunch as they tried to herd themselves into neat rows and columns. Military drill was obviously not a specialty. These were men to have on your side in the chaos of a barroom brawl, thought Mazorca, but not necessarily on a battlefield, where preserving order was vital.

  He did not pause to observe them as he neared the house. Two guards stood under the portico again, but they were more interested in watching the spectacle on the lawn than the approaching visitor. Neither took his eyes off Lane’s men, and it was not until Mazorca had passed through the short gate and grabbed the knob on the front door that one soldier bothered to give him a quick glance. Mazorca was ready to explain himself when the bluecoat delivered a slight nod and turned his attention back to the lawn.

  “A fine spot we’ll be in if we’re forced to stand by these men under fire,” he said with the slight brogue of an Irish immigrant.

  Mazorca almost replied, but then he realized the guard was not talking to him.

  “Say what you will, O’Malley, but these roughnecks are better than nothing—and right now they’re all we’ve got,” remarked the other guard.

  They were letting him pass. Mazorca did not hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, he pushed the front door open and stepped into the White House.

  He found himself in a foyer stocked with plain furnishings and badly in need of a paint job. A small chandelier drooped down from the ceiling. Through a glass screen held in place by an iron frame, this entranceway merged into long hall that ran left and right. A soldier sat on a wood bench against one of the walls. His eyes were closed.

  Mazorca entered the hallway and turned to his right. He knew the East Room, presently occupied by Lane’s men, was located in the opposite direction. He saw a grand staircase at the west end of the hall. At the foot of the steps stood three well-dressed ladies listening to a man conclude a short lecture.

  “Does anybody have a question?” asked the man.

  “Let’s move on, Senator,” replied one of the ladies. “I’m anxious to see the portrait you mentioned earlier.”

  “Then we shall continue our tour in the State Dining Room.”

  With that, the little group filed into a room just to the left of the staircase. When they were out of sight, Mazorca reached the base of the steps and peered into the room they had entered.

  He was surprised at its small size, perhaps thirty feet by twenty-five feet. An elegant table with fourteen chairs sat in the middle. Mazorca wondered if the president ever entertained more than a few diplomats, cabinet members, and congressmen at one time. He had thought about this dilemma only for a moment when the senator, standing before a fireplace, began a new speech.

  “And here it is, above the mantel: the famous painting of our first president, by the extraordinary Gilbert Stuart.”

  The picture was almost life-sized, and it showed a white-haired, red-cheeked George Washington dressed almost entirely in black. His face was expressionless. He held a sword in his left hand, and his right one appeared to beckon.

  “You all know the story,” said the senator. “As the British marched on our capital almost half a century ago, the brave Dolley Madison refused to leave her mansion until she received assurances that this portrait would not be left behind. When unscrewing it from the wall took too long, she ordered the frame broken and the canvas removed. This heroic little woman got away just in time—and she saved a national artistic treasure from redcoats who would have been happy to see it swallowed in flames.”

  One of his listeners let out a sharp gasp. Mazorca turned and walked away. At the opposite end of the hallway lay the East Room, and he made for it. He passed by a few closed doors on his right. On his left, he went by the entranceway where he had come into the building, and then a small staircase leading upward.

  The East Room was large, with high windows on three sides. It was perhaps twice the size of the state dining room and appeared both majestic and worn out. The ceiling’s white paint had chipped in one corner, and a panel of grimy yellow wallpaper sagged in another. The signs of former grandeur were everywhere: three massive chandeliers, a detailed floral carpet, several marble fireplaces with tall mirrors hanging above them, thick maroon curtains covering the windows, and regal blue chairs. Gold trim seemed to decorate everything.

  The most striking features, though, were the East Room’s occupants: the so-called Frontier Guards. About thirty of them lounged around playing cards or snoozing. They had transformed the room into a campground. A pile of backpacks rested to one side, and rifles stacked upright formed teepees beneath the chandeliers. The men were not responsible for the room’s faded appearance, but their presence had faded it further. The carpet wore a coat of dry mud. Pipe smoke drifted upward. Mazorca figured the dilapidation here was like the growth of a plant: too slow to watch minute by minute, but rapid enough to
measure over the course of days.

  After observing this scene, Mazorca left the East Room and returned to the stairs by the doorway. He began to climb them, half expecting to be stopped by a soldier. The mansion’s security—or, more accurately, the almost total lack of it—astonished him. He had visited capital cities in other countries before and had seen official residences. He was not sure he knew of a single one that was open to the public, let alone one that permitted the free movement he enjoyed here. Some Americans, he knew, would applaud this as a praiseworthy feature of their democratic nation. Mazorca believed it was sheer foolishness.

  He arrived in an office vestibule on the second floor. There was nobody in it, but he observed a small population of men lined up in an adjoining hallway, which he could see through a pair of glass doors. There were probably fifteen of them, all civilians. To his left was an open doorway into another room. Just as he was about to enter it, a tall, skinny man appeared on the threshold. He turned around, his back to Mazorca, and said, “When may I expect to hear something?”

  “That is impossible to know, Mr. Meadors,” came a voice from inside the room. “Please be patient. We will inform you as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. Hay.”

  Then Meadors nearly collided into Mazorca. He quickly apologized and departed into the hallway, where the crowd began to pepper him with questions. Mazorca paid them no heed and walked into the room Meadors had exited.

  There was a window at one end and two doors along each side. It resembled a short corridor more than an office. By a desk in the middle stood a young man with a thin mustache, studying a set of papers in his hand. When he saw Mazorca, an expression of irritation crossed his face.

  “I thought I told everyone to stay in the hallway until you were called,” he scolded.

  “Please excuse me,” said Mazorca, “I thought—”

  “Oh, never mind. The last one just left. But you probably know that. I’m John Hay, the president’s secretary.”

  Hay held out his hand, and Mazorca shook it. Then a bell rang. Hay seemed to expect it.

  “He’s ready,” said Hay. “You can expect to have about five or ten minutes. Come this way.”

  Hay stepped to a mostly closed door on the north wall, pushed it open, and walked in. Mazorca followed. Before he even knew where he was, he heard the secretary say something he scarcely believed.

  “Mr. President, your next appointment is here.”

  Tate walked to the stables at the Stark farm, near the scene of the previous day’s violence. He had spent the night there with Hughes, who remained bedridden on the orders of a doctor summoned in the middle of the night. The young man would recover, but it would take time. Tate now wanted to get back to Bennett and let him know what had happened. It was a grim task, but he was determined to do it.

  As he approached the stables, with his dog by his side, one of Stark’s slaves saw him.

  “Jeremiah,” he shouted over his shoulder, “get Mr. Tate’s horses.”

  A boy emerged with a group of horses: the one Tate had ridden, the one Hughes had ridden, and the two taken by Joe and Portia, which they had picked up along the way. A large sack drooped over the back of one animal. Inside of it was Joe’s cold body. Tate thought it made sense to have it buried on Bennett’s land.

  Tate paid no heed to Jeremiah until the dog sniffed him and let out a yelp. Then it started barking wildly at Jeremiah. Tate hollered for silence. The dog obeyed but continued to stare and flick its tail. Tate thought the dog’s behavior was a clear sign of recognition. He studied the boy and wondered.

  “What’s your name?” asked Tate.

  The question startled Jeremiah. He was not used to white visitors taking an interest in him, except to scold. Tate repeated the question, and Jeremiah answered it.

  “Have I seen you before, Jeremiah?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jeremiah, a bit tentatively.

  “Have you seen me?”

  “Before today? I don’t think so.”

  The dog remained agitated. It grumbled and refused to take its eyes off the boy.

  “Do you know anything about runaways? If you know what’s good for you, answer truthfully.”

  “I haven’t seen any.”

  Tate liked to think he could spot a liar just by looking at him—it was an essential skill for an overseer. With Jeremiah, however, he just could not tell. Rather than shiftiness or defiance, he saw fear in the boy. It meant that either he really did not know anything about Portia and Joe or he was an above-average deceiver. Tate was tempted to put Jeremiah in shackles and quiz him.

  But what would that solve? Hughes was badly hurt, and Tate did not want to alienate the Starks. Portia was long gone. It made sense to get back to Bennett’s. The overseer got on his horse and left. The horses followed Tate to the road, and the dog did too. But the dog also kept turning around for another look at Jeremiah. When the boy disappeared into the stables, the dog let out a final bark. Then it stayed by Tate’s side all the way home.

  The basement of the Treasury was so dark and dank that if Rook had not known better, he might have thought it was a medieval dungeon. A king of old Europe might condemn a prisoner here and throw away the key. These were helpful atmospherics, thought Rook, but best of all was the obscurity of the place. Almost nobody ever came down here—the only reason Rook had learned of it was because he had inspected the building several weeks earlier, when he was assessing its value as a defensive structure. The place was a warren of rooms filled with everything from dusty financial records to pieces of broken furniture. In one remote corner, however, was a short corridor of empty chambers that were little more than glorified closets. It was here that Rook had taken his four prisoners from the C&O Canal, placing them in separate rooms.

  Through the night, Rook, Springfield, and Clark had taken turns grilling Davis, Stephens, Mallory, and Toombs. The interrogations had not gone well. Rook had a long list of questions: What were their real names? Where were they from? Why had they walked around the Capitol? Why had they visited Violet Grenier? What were they planning to do with the blasting powder?

  After a while, it became apparent that Mallory and Toombs did not say much because they did not know much. Yet even they held their tongues on simple questions about their identities. Davis and Stephens seemed to have more to hide, but they did not budge either. Rook could think of no easy way to compel them. Out of sheer frustration, he had kicked Davis in the gut and threatened to do worse, but to no avail. Rougher techniques were an option though he did not feel confident about resorting to them—at least not yet.

  “What are we going to do with these men?” asked Springfield.

  “Right now, we’re not going to do anything with them,” said Rook. “We know they can’t do any harm here. After a day or two of sleeping on the floor and hoping that we’ll bother to feed them, they may prove more cooperative.”

  The colonel wished he could summon someone with more expertise at asking questions and obtaining answers. Unfortunately, he didn’t know anybody in the city with these skills. An even more fundamental problem than finding the right person, however, was Rook’s desire for secrecy. He was running a rogue operation without General Scott’s knowledge or approval—a clandestine program that, as he saw it, was necessary in order to counteract the complacency of his superior officers. Asking around for personnel would merely draw attention to what he was doing.

  He suspected that he could keep Davis and the others locked up for at least a few days without anybody noticing. Perhaps time would break their resolve. There would be logistical matters, such as providing them with food and water, though Rook did not feel particularly inclined to give them much of either. Hunger and thirst might erode their willpower as well. Would he have to post a guard outside their doors? He was tempted not to. Right now, only he, Springfield, and Clark knew of the prisoners. He wanted to keep it that way. But could he? What if somebody happened to wander through the basemen
t? What if the prisoners sensed that they were alone and yelled for help? Would someone hear?

  How all this would play out remained unclear. For now, Rook told himself that he had achieved his most immediate objectives: determining that Davis and company were an actual threat, and then preventing them from carrying out their plans. For the time being, perhaps this was enough of an accomplishment.

  “This will be difficult to keep hidden,” said Springfield.

  “Let me worry about that,” said Rook. “If it becomes a problem, I’ll take the blame.”

  “Just tell me what to do.”

  “We aren’t going to learn anything from these fellows, at least not now. We should try to learn more about the people they’re working with. There must be others. Violet Grenier may be the key.”

  On hearing her name, Springfield remembered his excursion of the previous morning, when he’d followed the stranger from Grenier’s home to the boardinghouse on H Street. He told Rook about it, including the detail about the man’s ear.

  “Do you think he’s connected to Davis and the others?” asked the colonel.

  “It’s impossible to say. He’s definitely connected to Grenier, and she’s definitely connected to them.”

  Rook ordered Springfield to keep Grenier under watch for the rest of the day. The colonel himself had to rush around the city making appearances at several posts—he had neglected his rounds yesterday and could not afford to do it again. Clark, meanwhile, would stand guard over the prisoners.

  As Rook and Springfield left the Treasury and walked into the sunlight, the colonel issued a final order. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t let anyone spot you.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “You can always hide behind that mustache of yours.”