The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  Mazorca had not said anything about a second visit. There may not be a reason for one, she realized—or at least not a professional reason. They had not spoken directly about why he was in Washington. Yet she knew what task lay before him and understood the importance of discretion. He needed to keep a low profile. Still, he had given her his address at Tabard’s, for use in an emergency. Or was it an invitation?

  Grenier gazed out her window. Her eyes settled on a man standing at the corner across the street, in front of St. John’s Church. He seemed to be doing nothing in particular, as if he were waiting on a friend. A loiterer was not remarkable, especially with Lafayette Park nearby. Yet something about him looked familiar. Had she seen him before? She thought that perhaps she had spotted him several hours earlier. That big mustache was hard to miss. Mustaches were fashionable these days. Only the oldest men, impervious to the latest trends, seemed able to shirk them. Mazorca, too—that was one of the things she liked about him. Yet the whiskers of the man outside her window achieved an astonishing thickness.

  “Calhoun,” she said, turning away from the window and toward the cat. “Let’s keep an eye out for this fellow.”

  Portia did not know how much time had passed when she woke up, but the shadows had grown long and the sun was plunging into the horizon. For a few minutes she did not move. The driver sat just a few feet away from her. She had not gotten a good look at him before hopping into his cart and burrowing beneath his rice sacks. If he had detected her, she probably would have known by now.

  Could she trust him? All Portia could see was the back of his head. The gray flecks hinted at someone getting on in his years. He was humming a familiar tune, but Portia could not quite place it. The simple fact that he was alone and far away from his plantation suggested a strong loyalty to his master and a demonstrated ability to travel distances and always come back. Portia knew that some slaves would take an interest in helping her make it to Charleston, as Jeremiah had done. She also knew that others would seize opportunities to win the favor of whites by betraying runaways. She worried that this man was such a slave.

  As Portia squirmed out from under the rice sacks, the soreness in her feet rushed up her legs. She winced. Sleep had provided a reprieve but not healing relief. Her blistered feet seemed to hurt worse than before.

  The sun continued to sink. Portia lifted herself up and immediately recognized the sight in front of the wagon. She had seen it before when she was just a girl: the huddled mass of buildings, a skyline dominated by church steeples, and water in the distance. They were minutes away from entering Charleston.

  The slow pace of the wagon made her anxious. Portia knew her real destination lay well within the city. As buildings began to appear on both sides of her, she wondered when she should make a move. Her head told her to slip out of the wagon soon. Her feet urged her to stay put.

  The farther the wagon went into the city, the more crowded the streets would become. She started to hear voices and other vehicles passing them. It was important to get away without being noticed by the driver or anybody else. How long could she wait?

  The wagon made a turn, and still Portia didn’t move. As the sky grew darker, she kept telling herself that she had to do something. The noises from outside the wagon began to fade. They were in a quieter part of the city now. She heard the driver’s humming again. She knew the tune from somewhere, but the words continued to elude her. Suddenly, the wagon stopped. So did the humming. Had she waited too long?

  “Get out.”

  She sat up straight, not sure where the voice had come from. The wagon was on some kind of side street. All was quiet. There were no people around except for her and the driver. He still faced away from her, but the command only could have come from one place.

  “Get out before I change my mind.”

  It was definitely the driver talking to her. Portia crawled over the rice sacks to the rear of the cart and lowered herself to the ground. She did this with care, but her feet still burned with pain. She limped to the side of the street and propped herself against the wall of a building. The wagon started to move again. The driver turned and nodded. She only saw his face for a moment, and there was kindness in it.

  “Good luck.”

  The wagon traveled another block, turned, and vanished from sight. Had he known the whole time that she was there? She could not be sure—her deep sleep had lasted the better part of the day. Now it hardly mattered. He was gone, and it was a detail. She had to find her way to Nelly’s, by the Battery. It was at the end of a long street that cut through most of the city, she remembered. She hoped she could find it.

  After walking about half a block, however, she had to stop because of her feet. She slipped into a narrow alleyway and sat down. A troubling thought came to her mind: what if the wagon driver really wanted her caught? Perhaps he had dropped her off only to inform the local authorities of her presence. Why would he let her go only to see her captured? It made no sense. Portia told herself not to panic. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

  Then she remembered the words to a song she had known for years. It was a secret song, one that slaves sang when only slaves were present—and never in the fields where a white person might overhear.

  Master sleeps in the feather bed,

  Slave sleeps on the floor;

  When we get up to Heaven,

  There’ll be no slaves no more.

  This was the song the wagon driver had hummed. She got up and started walking again. This time she hummed it too.

  When Rook arrived at the Winder Building, a soldier posted outside said the general was in the big room near the back of the building. Normally they met in Scott’s office—this other place was reserved for larger groups, such as the general’s whole senior staff. Rook had attended a few of these gatherings, but he had not heard about this one. It must have been called at the last minute. Was there news of war?

  Officers filled the room. Rook noticed that Scott had dressed himself in full regalia, the way he did when he had a meeting with the president. The colonel wondered why. Lincoln wasn’t here. Then he saw a man with wavy hair and a sharply angled nose that looked almost like a snout. It was William Seward, the secretary of state—the man who nearly had received the Republican nomination for president the previous year. If Lincoln had not grabbed it from him, in fact, Seward probably would be president today. Some people said Seward was the real leader of the administration. Others believed he was ferociously jealous of Lincoln.

  Rook ignored the officers who milled around and went straight for a chair at the large table. A moment later, Scott’s booming voice interrupted all conversation.

  “Please be seated, gentlemen. Let’s get started.”

  Everyone found a chair.

  “You have probably noticed that we are joined today by a distinguished guest,” said Scott. “Welcome, Secretary Seward.” The general bowed his head slightly, and men grunted greetings from around the table.

  “Thank you very much, General Scott,” said Seward. “This is a difficult moment for our country, but we in the administration are comforted to know that the protection of the capital and the president are in your capable hands.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” replied Scott. “Let us proceed now to our reports. Where’s General Johnston?”

  Heads bobbed around the room. Quartermaster General Joseph E. Johnston should have been at the table, but he was missing. It did not take much thinking to realize why: he was a Virginian and believed to hold secessionist sympathies.

  “Unfortunate, but not unexpected,” mumbled Scott. The big general turned to his assistant, Colonel Locke. “When this meeting is concluded, find out where Johnston is and whether he has resigned.”

  Locke scribbled a note to himself, and Scott continued. He spent the next several minutes describing recent events. It was one alarming piece of news after another. On Friday, federal troops passing through Baltimore on their way to Washington had sparked a riot. It was
not clear who fired first. Either way, the results were grim: thirteen people killed, including four soldiers.

  Rook leaned over to the captain beside him. “Nobody died at Sumter,” he whispered. “If there’s a war, then these men in Baltimore are its first casualties.”

  The next day—yesterday—Baltimore’s rioters cut telegraph lines and destroyed railroad tracks coming into the city from Pennsylvania. This halted Washington’s mail and newspaper deliveries from the North. Trains continued to run irregularly from Washington to Baltimore, and they were packed with people trying to escape from the capital. Even more left by foot or carriage. The slow exodus of recent weeks was picking up. And word had come just hours before the meeting that the commandant at the Norfolk navy yard had ordered his garrison burned, his cannon spiked, and most of his ships scuttled. It was one defeat after another—first Sumter, then Harper’s Ferry, and now the clash in Baltimore and the capitulation at Norfolk. Rook worried that things would get worse before they got better.

  “Let us proceed with the business at hand,” said Scott.

  “We all know what happened in Baltimore on Friday, but today we have with us Colonel Edward F. Jones of the Sixth Massachusetts. His men are bunking in the Senate. He will give us a full report of what transpired.”

  A lanky colonel stood. He described arriving in Baltimore by train and drawing a crowd as his men marched across the city. At first, agitators shouted insults. Then they began hurling bricks and stones. The troops kept their composure but grew aggravated. Finally, a shot went off—almost certainly from the mob and possibly from a musket that was stolen from one of the soldiers after he was hit in the face with a rock. “I have four dead soldiers and more than thirty injured to prove that our harassers were armed and willing to open fire,” said Jones. “We had no choice but to fire back.” They fought their way to the depot, boarded a train, and made it to Washington.

  Seward stood up. “You fought bravely and well, Colonel,” he said. “On behalf of the government, let me say that we are all grateful for your sacrifice.”

  Rook did everything he could to keep from rolling his eyes. Seward might be a cabinet secretary, but at heart he was a politician. Like so many other politicians, he enjoyed hearing himself speak and ingratiating himself to his listeners. He looked at soldiers, but he did not see warriors. He saw voters. Even so, Rook began to think that Seward’s presence today might prove useful.

  “We are under siege and isolated, gentlemen,” said Scott.

  “We are all that stands between the preservation of the Union and its ruin. Yet we do not possess an adequate force to defend Washington from an attack of any significance.”

  “Will reinforcements come?” asked Seward.

  “The New York Seventh is supposedly on the way. It cannot get here soon enough.”

  Scott rattled off a series of orders. He told the officers already in charge of organizing armed citizen groups and marshaling provisions to redouble their efforts. He demanded stronger picket lines around the perimeter of the city and better intelligence on military activity in Maryland and Virginia. He insisted that sandbags be placed around the Treasury Department—if war came to the streets of Washington, it would become a military headquarters and a refuge for the president. The general reviewed evacuation procedures, including a scheme to escort the president from Washington if the city’s capture was imminent. He wanted a plan for everything and gave everybody something to do. Rook was responsible for monitoring the bridges and locating facilities for additional soldiers, should they ever come.

  “Are there any questions?” asked Scott.

  When nobody had any, Rook spoke. “General,” he said. “I might make a comment.”

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “Last Friday’s incident demonstrates the wisdom of President Lincoln’s decision to pass through Baltimore in the middle of the night rather than risk the fury of a mob. He has been greatly criticized for it, even by his friends and allies. It is said that he regrets having done it. Now we have fatal evidence showing that he was sensible to have been cautious.”

  Seward leaned forward in his chair, which Rook viewed as an encouraging sign. Perhaps the secretary’s presence would force Scott to make a concession.

  “We also have a better understanding of the enemy’s level of commitment and resourcefulness—and the knowledge that we have perhaps underestimated it,” continued Rook. “We’re responding effectively to the external threat. What about the internal threat? We know this city is full of secessionists—”

  Scott interrupted. “What are you driving at, Colonel?”

  “We can surround the Treasury with a wall of sandbags soaring above our heads, and it won’t do any good if a handful of secessionist vigilantes storm the president’s mansion. At the very least, we must improve our surveillance of likely instigators.”

  A few heads nodded in agreement. An equal number did not move at all. Colonel Locke scoffed. Seward narrowed his eyes.

  “I thought we had already discussed this matter,” said Scott. “Our focus now is on military operations. Sneaking and snooping won’t do us any good when Lee comes marching into northern Virginia at the head of an army.”

  Seward raised his hand, stopping Scott’s commentary. “How serious is this problem, Colonel?”

  “I would definitely call it serious—and made more so by a failure to recognize its potential. We just learned a painful lesson in Baltimore about not appreciating the lengths to which some people will go in opposing our aims. We must avoid making the same mistake here.”

  Scott could not restrain himself any longer. “Mr. Secretary, you must understand that this colonel”—he emphasized the rank, as if to show it compared poorly against his own—“is making an old argument. We’ve gone over this many times before, and still he persists. Frankly, Colonel, it is beginning to smack of insubordination—and your desperate attempt to show off in front of the secretary here is embarrassing to me and all the other officers sitting around this table. You are now in charge of sandbagging the Treasury Department. You will devote yourself to this project exclusively. Others will assume your previous responsibilities.”

  The meeting went on for another half hour. The only part Rook would remember was how Locke smirked and Seward stared for the rest of it.

  THIRTEEN

  MONDAY, APRIL 22, 1861

  Portia opened her eyes to a small room she did not recognize. Light seeped in from a half-closed doorway, revealing white walls, a low ceiling, and not much else. She was lying on a hard bed. It made her wonder where her own bed was and why she was not in it. The answers did not come quickly to her groggy mind.

  She remembered lumbering down a city street in Charleston. The need to rest her aching feet overcame her every block or two. Between her hampered gait and the frequent stops, it had taken half the night.

  The street finally ended where the waves lapped against a seawall. When she turned around to look at the way she had come, Portia recognized that she was in the Battery. Water bounded it on two sides. Houses lined the rest of the park. They were big homes with white columns and cast-iron balconies. Packing them together so tightly made them look smaller than they really were, but Portia knew they sprawled on the inside. Most were three stories high. The Bennett home was on the opposite side, its ground floor lit by gaslight and visible through the trees. Nelly lived next door.

  It was too late to knock, not that she would have tried it, even in daylight. What if Nelly had left for a plantation? The thought sent a shiver through Portia. Nelly was supposed to spend all her time in Charleston. But things could have changed. If she was gone, Portia did not know what she would do.

  No lights shone through the mansion’s windows. Portia entered an alley. There was a single door in the rear of Nelly’s house. She thought about trying the handle. Instead, she sat down and rubbed her feet. The ache receded after a few minutes. Portia was not sure what to do next. It was easy to do nothing at all. She was exhaus
ted. Her eyes began to droop. She fought to keep them open but felt herself losing the battle. Part of her actually wanted to lose it. A comforting blackness washed over her.

  That was the last thing she remembered before she woke. Suddenly, a heavyset woman walked through the door. Even from the dim glow from the hallway, Portia recognized Nelly.

  “You’re awake,” said Nelly. She reached for a damp rag.

  “Lemme wipe this grime off your face, child. It looks like you ain’t been clean in days.” She rubbed lightly at first, then dipped the rag into a bucket by the side of the bed and scrubbed a bit harder.

  “You’re a pretty young thing,” she said. “But you’re feelin’ a little cold. I’m gonna get you one more blanket.” She twisted around and called out of the room, “Benjamin! Gimme that green blanket!” Then she turned back to Portia and gave her a warm smile. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

  “Do you remember me?” asked Portia.

  “I remember a cute little girl from the winter season eight or nine years ago. I know how you’ve grown because your grandfather keeps tellin’ me about you—or at least he answers all the questions I ask. I’ve known that man for years, and you’re the first and only grandchild of his that I’ve met. Of course, I can’t see people in my own family as much as I’d like. Anyway, I know Lucius has a lotta kin. You’re just the only one who has been this way before.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “I can’t answer that question, honey,” said Nelly. She put down the washcloth and started to fuss with Portia’s hair. “I found you sleepin’ by the back door, right after sunrise. I spotted you through a window and walked outside to kick you awake. We don’t want no vagrants around here. But somethin’ about you looked familiar. The shape of your face is the same as your grandfather’s. I also knew it was you because years ago I saw the woman inside the girl. So I pulled you in here and set you down on this bed. It’s a good thing Mr. Jenkins ain’t around. He wouldn’t lemme skip all this work and take care of you. He’d insist that you go next door to the Bennett place, even though I would tell him there’s nobody there right now. Of course, the fact that nobody’s next door makes me wonder what you’re doin’ in these parts.”