Leery snickered at the thought of this. “But you are not asking me to purchase your freedom,” he continued. “You present a different type of problem. I wish I could just give you a horse and tell you to be on your way. The boats are fast, but I wouldn’t recommend stowing away right now—certainly not a woman on a ship full of men. But even if that were a risk worth taking, I don’t think it would work. With all this talk of a naval blockade, the ships heading out of port are crammed full of goods—there probably isn’t a nook or cranny anywhere in their holds for a person like you.”
“Ain’t there somethin’ we can do?” asked Nelly.
“I’m thinking,” said Leery, staring at Portia. “You’re not very big, are you?”
“What do you mean?” said Portia.
“You’re not a big person. Have you ever heard the story of Box Brown?”
“Who?”
“Henry ‘Box’ Brown, a slave who lived in Richmond, Virginia, about ten or twelve years ago.”
“No.”
Leery looked at Nelly. “I haven’t either,” she said.
“His story hasn’t been told very much down here. That’s because the white people don’t want word of it leaking out. Box Brown is pretty well known in the North, though. He lived with a cruel master who sold Brown’s wife and children to another owner far away—Brown had to watch them march off in chains with the knowledge that he would never see them again. That experience convinced him to escape. He didn’t think he could evade the slave hunters, so he came up with an ingenious plan. He met with a carpenter that he knew he could trust and they manufactured a special box, two feet by two and a half feet by three feet. They lined the inside with a thick cloth, punched a few small holes in the sides, and loaded some provisions. Then ‘Box’ climbed into his box. The carpenter nailed it shut, wrapped it with a few hickory hoops, and shipped his human cargo to Philadelphia. One day later, Brown emerged from his container in the offices of an antislavery society.”
“He was alive?”
“He was worn out and sore—but definitely alive. I think he lives in England now.”
“You tryin’ to say somethin’, James?” asked Nelly.
“A package leaving here by train this evening probably would need until Wednesday morning to make it to Washington. You can never tell for sure how long it will take. This is only worth doing, Portia, if you’re absolutely certain that you want to go through with it. I would estimate that the risks are quite high and failure a very real possibility. But I’ve actually got a box in the back room here that might do the trick…”
Portia watched him go through a doorway on the back wall, chattering without stop. For the first time in days, she smiled. She knew her blisters were not going to get any worse.
FOURTEEN
TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1861
The bookshop of French & Richstein sat on Pennsylvania Avenue, just off Twelfth Street and in the heart of the downtown business district. In addition to books, it sold stationery, pens, ink, and just about anything having to do with the written word. Periodicals were an important part of the business too, especially newspapers from New York. These were generally regarded as better than the ones produced in the capital. They arrived by train each day and went on sale by late afternoon, in time for people to buy them on their way home from work. Yet no papers from New York had passed through Baltimore since the weekend, putting a nasty dent in French & Richstein’s revenue flow.
As Philip French unlocked the door to his shop early in the morning, he wondered if a train would make it through before the sun went down. Fewer people had bought books since the start of the secession crisis. Many more of them, however, were buying the daily and weekly publications. These sales did not make up the difference, but they certainly helped. French did not welcome the prospect of these falling off as well.
Lots of businesses had suffered in recent weeks. There had been a flurry of economic activity around the time of Lincoln’s inauguration, when the city swarmed with members of the new Republican Party celebrating their victory and trying to get jobs in the government. Each day since then, the city had seemed a little emptier. There were soldiers, but they were not customers. The departing long-time residents nevertheless provided a unique opportunity for French & Richstein because many of them decided to sell their book collections. French’s partner, Norman Richstein, had spent a good portion of the last several weeks appraising and purchasing the libraries of people leaving town. The sellers essentially bet against Washington, or at least Washington’s continued normal existence. French & Richstein gambled in its favor. This made Philip French nominally for the Union, though his feelings were not strong. He was perfectly willing to stock secessionist newspapers from Richmond in his shop as long as there were buyers for them. He just wanted to continue selling books, and he was for whatever made that possible.
As the day’s first customer walked through the front door, French hoped the morning would get off to a good start. The tall, sandy-haired man headed straight for the bookshelves and started to examine titles. French became hopeful. This was the best sort of customer for a business that relies on repeat visits: a new one.
French knew that book buyers were often shy people who would rather read a printed word than exchange a spoken one. Strangers made them feel especially uncomfortable. He wondered if his new customer was that sort of person. The man had made only the briefest eye contact when he entered the store. Still, the proprietor wanted to extend some kind of greeting. “Please let me know if I may be of service,” he said at last.
Mazorca looked up from an open volume. “I will,” he said, flipping through the rest of the pages of the book in his hand and putting it back on the shelf. He ran his finger along the spines beside it, settled on another thick tome, and slid it off the shelf. He tested its weight and studied it from several angles. He pulled back the cover and appeared to assess the texture and strength of the individual pages.
French watched Mazorca do this with several volumes. He thought it was one of the most unusual book examinations he had ever seen. It was not obvious to him that his customer had even read the titles of the books. He certainly wasn’t reading the words on the pages. He seemed to be judging the books by their material quality instead of their literary content, which, he thought, was rather like judging the taste of a wine by the shape of its bottle. Yet his customer accumulated a small stack of books under his arm. French was grateful for that.
After about twenty minutes, Mazorca approached the counter.
“Did you find everything?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Mazorca placed five oversize volumes in front of French. Four were in excellent condition. The last one was in dreadful shape, with a cracked binding and loose pages stuffed between its covers. French was a bit embarrassed to see that it had been sitting on one of his shelves. It was a copy of Schiller’s plays and criticism, in the original German.
“Sorry about the condition of this one,” he said as he totaled Mazorca’s bill. “I don’t believe we have another copy.”
“I’ve been looking for it,” came the reply. “I would have taken it in any condition.”
French was a bit surprised by Mazorca’s choices. In addition to Schiller, there were two Bibles, a lavishly illustrated guide to American birds, a novel called The Mysteries of Udolpho, and a copy of the new Dickens book. French liked to comment approvingly on his customers’ purchases, even to the silent types. When he added the Bibles to Mazorca’s tally, he settled on something to say.
“Ah, yes. The good word.”
Mazorca smiled, though French was not sure it was for his benefit. “The last word,” he muttered, looking at the book rather than its seller.
French totaled the bill and Mazorca paid it. “Thank you very much. I hope we will see you again,” said French, really meaning it.
“You may,” said Mazorca, walking to the door. Before stepping out, however, he turned back to French. “By the way, I
thought I might try to have the Schiller book repaired by a bookbinder. Can you recommend one?”
“Of course,” said French. “Try Charles Calthrop. He’s just a few blocks away.”
French gave Mazorca the address and directions. A moment later, Mazorca was gone. French did not notice a man with a bushy mustache standing across the street. Neither did Mazorca.
Portia tumbled onto a hard surface—and nothing had ever felt quite so good. After spending the first leg of her journey upside down, she at last lay on her side. She had not planned on comfort while pressed into her small crate, but she had expected the porters at the railroad station in Charleston at least to have seen the words Leery marked on the outside of her box in big black letters: “This side up.” There were even arrows pointing in the right direction in case the loaders could not read. Whether they failed to see Leery’s instructions or simply ignored them hardly mattered now. It just felt good to be off her head.
She knew it was daytime because a thin ray of light streaked though a tiny hole in her box. But she had no idea whether it was morning or afternoon, or even where she was. Leery had told her that she probably would be loaded off and on trains a couple of times before reaching her destination—he had mentioned Wilmington and Richmond, but these names meant nothing to her.
Nelly had raised plenty of objections—starvation, suffocation, and so on—but Leery had an answer for each one. When Nelly finally consented, he packed Portia into a crate with a sack of water, a dozen biscuits, and a pillow. He also bored a few small holes around the box to ensure that she would have enough air to breathe. He even gave her a gimlet in case she needed to create more holes. He sealed the box so that she could open it from the inside.
For Portia, the decision to follow the example of Box Brown was easy. It represented her best chance of getting to Washington in a short amount of time. It carried obvious risks—discomfort, delay, discovery—but so did the alternatives. Portia had heard stories about slaves in places like Maryland and Kentucky running through the woods to freedom in the North, but they really did not have very far to travel. From South Carolina, an overland trek would be long and hard, and the odds of success incredibly slim. Not only would Portia risk getting caught, but she would also risk arriving in Washington too late. A refusal to take chances guaranteed failure. And so she had gone into the box.
Portia could not have been off the train for more than a few minutes when she felt herself moving again. Then her box was lifted and placed down somewhere else. It was not long before she heard a train whistle and felt that same sensation of momentum that she had experienced upon leaving Charleston. She was cramped and sore, and the light through her hole had disappeared. Yet she did not care—this time, at least, her handlers had paid attention to Leery’s instructions. Portia was right side up.
Charles Calthrop knew he was out of place in Washington. Most of the country’s high-quality artistic bookbinders were in New York, where they operated close to major publishing houses and the center of national wealth. For three decades Calthrop had labored among them, restoring frayed family Bibles and designing ornamental covers for the vanity books of socialites who mistook themselves for poets. Work was everything to him, and he was proud of what he did. He often signed his volumes in a discreet place when he was particularly satisfied with a result, as if he were a painter.
By the late 1840s, a growing portion of Calthrop’s business was coming from Washington. It had started with a single senator who wanted to collect several of his own speeches and writings in attractive volumes for friends and supporters. Through word of mouth, Calthrop eventually became Washington’s favorite bookbinder, even though he did not live there. Over time, Calthrop decided to move closer to his clientele. So the gray-haired bachelor moved to Washington and opened a small shop on the second floor of a K Street building, near the corner of Fourteenth Street, in 1855.
For Calthrop, a busy day was when a visitor climbed the stairs to his shop and he also received an inquiry through the mail. That was fine with him. Bookbindery was a lonely occupation that required a tremendous amount of patience. Calthrop enjoyed nothing more than the solitude of several quiet hours spent fixing small cracks and waiting for glue to dry before proceeding to the next step. The arrival of customers often bothered him because they interrupted his work—even though he knew they were the people who provided him with the ability to continue doing what he loved most.
When Mazorca walked into the shop with an armful of books just before lunchtime, Calthrop set down a tiny blade he had been using on an old volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, owned by a cabinet secretary. He hoped this man would be the day’s only business.
“May I help you?” sighed Calthrop, not moving from his seat behind a table.
“Your services have been recommended to me. I have a book that would benefit from restoration.”
Mazorca placed the Schiller book beside Calthrop. The old man picked it up and cradled it gently. He flipped it over several times. Then he opened it and studied the pages.
“You have good taste,” he said. “I am a great admirer of Schiller’s. There aren’t many other people in Washington who know much about him.”
Mazorca simply nodded.
“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” asked the bookbinder.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you speak German? Apparently not.”
“No, I don’t. This book is for an acquaintance.”
Disappointed, Calthrop returned his gaze to the book and sighed again. “Its condition looks worse than it really is,” he said. “A few minor repairs should do the trick. Unfortunately, I’m a bit behind on several projects right now. I’m not sure how soon I could give it attention.”
“I was thinking about trying to fix the book myself. Would you be willing to show me what needs to be done and sell me the tools? I’d be happy to pay you for your time as well.”
Calthrop thought it was an odd request. He did not want an apprentice peering over his shoulder. He did have some spare tools, though. He always had more tools than he needed. Selling them to this fellow might not be a bad idea—and getting paid for a short lesson on top of that made additional sense.
The bookbinder studied the Schiller volume again, this time more intently. “Here is how I would approach the problem,” he said, outlining a strategy that would take three days to complete. For a half an hour, Calthrop described what to do and showed his student how to use several tools. When they were done, Mazorca had a small pile of knives, glue, and ribbon. They settled on a price—one that Calthrop found extremely pleasing.
“Please come back with additional questions as the need arises,” said Calthrop, surprising himself with the offer.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. You’ve told me everything I need to know, Mr. Calthrop.”
“Well, feel free to return.”
“I will,” said Mazorca, turning to exit.
“There is just one more thing, sir.”
Mazorca turned around. From his look, Calthrop could tell his customer desired to leave. But a question nagged him. “Are you from Cuba?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d wager that you’re from Cuba.”
Mazorca froze. “What makes you say that?”
“I can hear a touch of Spanish in your accent, and specifically a Cuban dialect.”
“You are mistaken,” said Mazorca, coldly.
“Have you at least spent time there, or somewhere else in Spanish America?”
“No.” This time Mazorca was more insistent. “Not Cuba.” He pursed his lips. He looked annoyed.
Calthrop felt a need to explain. “I’m very sorry. I was a musician in my youth, and my ear catches small variations in sound. I would still be a musician today, except that I heard music better than I played it. I’m left with this ability to pick up tiny differences in the way people pronounce words. I’ve made guessing where people are from into a little hobby. I’m usua
lly pretty good at it. I’ll feel better if you tell me you’ve at least spent some time in Cuba.”
“Where I’m from is no concern of yours.” Mazorca’s glare unsettled Calthrop.
“I didn’t meant to offend…”
Mazorca was gone before Calthrop could finish his sentence. The old man was glad this customer had purchased supplies rather than dropped off a book. He did not want to see him again.
“What’s this?” asked Rook, pointing to the stack of books piled next to Springfield on his bench in Lafayette Park. The colonel had slipped away from his sandbagging command for a short meeting. He bent over and looked at the spines. There were five copies of the same book: The Pickwick Papers, by Charles Dickens.
“I didn’t take you for a reader,” said Rook before Springfield could respond. “I took you for a vile and calumnious man.”
Springfield leaped to his feet, startled by the colonel’s comment. “Excuse me, sir?”
“I meant that in a Pickwickian sense.”
“A what?”
“Well, that proves it.”
“Proves what?”
“That you aren’t a reader.”
“I’m confused, sir.”
“Me too. You’re sitting here in the park with five copies of The Pickwick Papers beside you, and you don’t understand an elementary reference to them—a humorous one, I might add. If I say you’re vile and calumnious in a Pickwickian sense, then I mean the exact opposite. I’ve actually paid you a compliment.”
Springfield furrowed his brow. “Thank you, I guess. I haven’t read these books, sir.”
“Obviously not. What are they doing here?”
“I bought them this morning.”
“A good selection. But I hope you realize each copy is the same on the inside—you might have saved yourself some money buying only a single copy. An experienced reader would know that.”
The First Assassin Page 25