The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  “What, boss?”

  “Did you mention this to anybody?” said Nat, pointing toward the box.

  “No. I haven’t done anything but unload.”

  “Let’s keep it to ourselves. I don’t think any good will come from it if we start talkin’.”

  “Do you think that woman was a—”

  “Stop right there. We should forget it even happened.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Go home now. See you tonight.”

  When he was gone, Nat put the lid in the box and moved them off the train platform. He was not sure where to put them, but just about anywhere was better than leaving them where they had been unloaded, in plain sight. He carried them out of the depot. The first thing he saw was the Capitol. He headed toward it.

  Before long, Nat was in a construction yard. There were piles of coal and wood. Columns in various states of disassembly lay strewn about, plus blocks of marble, keystones, and iron plates. He set the box down by a pile of rock chips and grabbed a small ax lying by a wheelbarrow. He pried and chopped until only a pile of scrap wood remained.

  Leaving the work area, Nat thought he heard a foot scrape against the ground behind a tool shed. He hoped that nobody had seen him. When he heard the noise again, he went around to the back of the shed. There she was: the woman from the box. She was crouched low, with her arms folded across her chest. She was not well dressed for the brisk morning weather, and she shivered a bit at the cold. Had she followed him here? Nat was not sure. He could tell she was exhausted and confused. This did not surprise him, considering what she had just gone through. How long had she been in that box? One day? Two days? More? It was amazing she had even survived.

  Yet her ordeal was not over. For a moment Nat considered leaving her there. As a free black, he knew his position in Washington was tenuous. He was not a slave, but helping one escape would make him lose what few rights he did have. It was a problem he did not need or want.

  Just then, some life appeared in the eyes of the woman. She looked up at Nat. Her lips parted and her voice was weak.

  “Please help me.”

  Grenier’s guest slipped through an alleyway behind her house. He moved with a mixture of caution and speed, pausing in the shadows but also determined to get away as quickly as possible. The last thing he needed was for somebody to recognize him here. It would lead to questions he did not want to answer. He wished he had left when it was still dark.

  At least it was early. The day had only barely begun. At Seventeenth Street, he stood in the gap between two houses and waited. When he was certain that nobody was on the street, he turned left and walked toward H Street. There he made another left. He tried to act indifferent to his surroundings, but at the corner of Sixteenth and H he could not resist a glance toward Grenier’s house.

  He did not love her, but he imagined that it would be nice if she loved him. Sometimes he even let himself believe that she really did. It would have struck him as romantic to see her peering from her bedroom window, hoping to catch one more look at him. Perhaps he would risk a little wave, something to make her smile as he set off for another day of important meetings with top officials in the government.

  No such luck. The curtains were drawn. The front of her house was as blank as the others nearby.

  He crossed the street and entered Lafayette Park. He sat on a bench, aware that he had some time to pass before his first appointment of the day: a security meeting with General Scott and his top advisors.

  Grenier’s desire to know about the inner workings of government was peculiar. He had never known a woman with such an interest. But what harm was there in telling her? She was merely curious. Why should he deny himself the opportunity to be in her good graces? What a pleasure it was to know such a woman, and in such a way. Already he wanted to go back to her.

  His mind churned with ideas of how to make that possible and how soon it might happen, but he found it difficult to concentrate. That dark-haired beauty had a grip on his imagination.

  A young man walked by—a civilian, probably a clerk at one of the government agencies. His footsteps snapped the man on the bench to attention. If the bureaucrats were already on their way to their offices, he thought, then he should be on his way as well. General Scott did not appreciate latecomers.

  He rose from his seat and looked once more toward Grenier’s home.

  “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” he whispered. “Very soon.”

  He decided to send her a note promising more secrets the next time they were together. She would have it by morning—and he would have her again too.

  The conference in the Winder Building was drawing to a close when Scott turned to Rook and gave the colonel a devilish grin. Right away, Rook did not like it. He had barely spoken during the meeting. Roughly the same cast of characters was present as compared to the previous day—Seward, Locke, and all the rest. Rook just wanted it to end without incident. The general’s look suggested that he would not get his wish.

  “So, Colonel Rook,” said Scott, pausing for effect. “We haven’t heard much from you. How goes the sandbagging?”

  Locke snickered, but Rook ignored him. He kept his eyes fixed on Scott. He despised the question, but his goal of getting out of the meeting remained unchanged.

  “They’re piled high, sir. I’d be happy to give you a tour if you want to inspect them yourself.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Colonel. I have faith in your ability to get this job done.”

  The exchange was infuriating, but Rook let it rest. Earlier, they had discussed serious matters. Washington’s latest security troubles included another suspension of train service from Baltimore. The reason for the interruption was unclear, though probably the result of sabotage. Whatever the cause, it meant that no mail or newspapers from New York or Philadelphia would get through. The lines to the South remained open, at least for the time being. When Scott had shifted his attention away from these developments and toward sandbags, Rook assumed that their meeting was about to break up.

  He was correct. Moments later, Rook walked from the room. In a corridor, he passed a private who was moving in the opposite direction, toward Scott. Rook thought nothing of the soldier, who was little more than a boy, and continued on his way out of the Winder Building.

  Behind him, the private stepped inside the room and saw that Scott was occupied with several farewells. It took a few minutes for the room to clear. Seward was the last to depart.

  “It’s very good of you to come again,” said the general, shaking Seward’s hand. Although decorum normally would have called for Scott to be standing, he remained planted on his chair. Seward did not seem to mind. Everybody made accommodations for the weighty general.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” said the secretary of state. “It’s good for a member of the president’s cabinet to attend these gatherings. I just hope that before long the purpose of our encounters won’t be quite so pressing.”

  When Seward finally left, the private approached Scott and stood at attention. The general examined him for a moment. His back was nicely arched, chest out, arms straight, heels together. This was a well-trained soldier who knew how to present himself to a superior officer. Scott let him stand this way for a few moments—long enough for his unnatural pose to grow uncomfortable. It would build the boy’s character. At last he spoke.

  “Yes, Private?”

  “Sir, this just arrived for you.” He held out an envelope.

  The general took it. The outside read, “Gen. Scott—personal and urgent.” He ripped the seal and unfolded a piece of stationery. The script was delicate and elegant. As he read it, he grew angry.

  Dear General:

  I hope this note finds you well. I know you are busy—perhaps too busy to know what some of your men are doing. Surely you would not order anybody to keep watch on my home, as if I were a common criminal. The current crisis is far too important for you to concern yourself with a lady�
��s dinner parties and visits to church.

  You may want to discuss the matter with Col. Rook. You may also want to inquire as to why he puts prisoners in the Treasury Department.

  Apparently I have enemies, so I can’t possibly sign my name to this letter. To have my name attached to a scandal would be ruinous.

  Yours in desperation and hope,

  A Friend

  Scott read the letter a second time, then a third. Part of it felt like an insult—the implication that he did not know what his own men were doing. That irritated him. But the rest of it enraged him—an accusation about surveillance and a question about prisoners. He knew what he had to do.

  Scott looked up at the private and barked an order: “Get me Rook!”

  Mazorca woke late and tumbled downstairs. Tabard was sitting in the dining room, hunched over a copy of the previous day’s National Intelligencer. A steaming cup of coffee sat on the table beside her. She looked up as he approached. “Good morning, Mr. Mays,” she said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

  The woman is efficient, thought Mazorca as he sat down. He began to reach for the newspaper when she came back with his coffee. “You were out late last night,” she said.

  It was not a question. Mazorca wondered whether this was an innocent attempt at small talk or the kind of inquisitive behavior that he could not tolerate. His first task was not to arouse her curiosity any further than it already had been.

  “Yes, I was,” he said with a smile. “I started playing cards with some new business acquaintances. We lost track of time. I’m a little embarrassed, actually. I tried to keep quiet coming in.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m an early riser.”

  That was true enough, Mazorca knew. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the newspaper. “Not at all,” said Tabard, pushing it toward him.

  Mazorca opened the pages, using it as a shield to hide his face from the woman. It stopped their conversation, which he had hoped it would, but it did not end his concern about her curiosity. He gulped down his coffee, continuing to hold the paper but not reading its words. When he was done, he folded the paper, set it on the table, and stood.

  “Anything interesting in there?” asked Tabard. Mazorca wished she had not asked, but at least the question fell squarely in the category of small talk, rather than nosiness. “Not really,” he said, smiling once again. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Back in his room, Mazorca turned his attention away from the conversation downstairs. He collected the knife and a few items from his trunk and placed them in a bag.

  When everything was ready, his thoughts returned to what had transpired in the dining room. It was probably nothing, he assured himself. But he wanted to be certain. Once he was gone, Tabard could unlock the door and scour his room from floor to ceiling.

  With the tips of his fingers, Mazorca combed through the hair on the crown of his head. When he had isolated a single strand, he yanked it out. The hair was short, light in color, and slightly curled. Mazorca opened his trunk and positioned the hair inside, on the edge of a folded shirt. If intruders went through his belongings, they would almost certainly knock it out of place.

  When this was done, Mazorca gave his room a last glance. If the previous night was late, he knew that the one ahead was likely to be even later. In fact, he was not sure when he would return.

  As he descended the steps, Tabard was still sitting in the dining room. Mazorca kept his eyes trained on her the whole time, but she did not look up. She was keeping to herself. He considered it a good sign.

  Less than ten minutes after Mazorca had departed, a boy carrying Grenier’s message knocked on the door of the boardinghouse and handed it to Tabard.

  Rook knew he would reach the Naval Observatory well ahead of Springfield. He did not like to spend his time waiting around, but he had been so desperate to get away from Scott and the Winder Building that it was a relief to stand alone with his horse. He held the horse’s reins and rubbed its muzzle. The black ball above the observatory would not drop for several more minutes.

  When Rook saw Springfield, he was surprised to see that the sergeant was not alone. A lieutenant walked with him—it looked like Lieutenant Fick, who had graduated from West Point within the last year or two. Rook had attended a handful of meetings with him but did not know him well. He and Springfield approached at a rapid pace.

  “Sir, General Scott demands to see you immediately!” said Fick, still walking toward Rook and almost shouting the sentence.

  “I was just with him not half an hour ago,” said Rook.

  “He’s very insistent,” said Fick. “He dispatched half a dozen of us to track you down.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say. We’re just supposed to get you back to the Winder Building as quickly as possible.”

  Rook looked at Springfield. “Do you know what this is about?”

  “No, sir,” said the sergeant, shaking his head. “Lieutenant Fick spotted me a couple of blocks from here and said he needed to find you. I told him to come this way.”

  “That’s strange. The general hasn’t had much use for me recently.”

  “Sir, we really should get to the general,” said Fick, sounding impatient.

  “Before we go anywhere, I have some business to discuss with Sergeant Springfield.”

  “Forgive my impertinence, sir, but the general is likely to become angry at any delay.”

  “Calm down, Lieutenant. You only found me a minute ago. It sounds like General Scott is mad enough to begin with. I can’t see how another minute or two will make a difference. If you like, go back to the Winder Building and tell everyone that I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Sir, I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

  “Then by all means keep a steady gaze on me. But please allow me to have a private conversation with Springfield,” said Rook. When Fick did not quickly back away, Rook raised his eyebrows in mock irritation. “And Lieutenant, that’s an order.”

  The young man was unsure of how to respond. He crossed his arms and took a few steps back. Rook and Springfield turned away from him.

  “You really don’t know what this is about?” asked Rook.

  “No, but I doubt it’s good.”

  “Lately, none of my meetings with Scott have been good. Anyway, what intelligence do you have for me?”

  “Not much. Grenier had a visitor last night. He wasn’t there for a meal.”

  “Could you identify him?”

  “Afraid not. It was late when he walked up the steps to the door. I wasn’t close enough to get a good look.”

  “Was it our friend, the bibliophile with the bad ear?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t there for a meal?”

  “He arrived alone, and he stayed long past any hour of decency.”

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “No. I gave up waiting at about three in the morning. If I hadn’t, I swear I would have fallen asleep on a park bench.”

  “All right, Sergeant. I’m not sure what that proves, but it may be helpful. See what you can learn about Grenier’s friend, the one you followed to the boardinghouse.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll check in with you later, if General Scott hasn’t bitten off my head.”

  Fick stood about fifteen feet away—not close enough to hear anything they had just said, and still struggling with the question of whether he should have tried. Rook saw his uncertainty. The lieutenant’s earnestness was impressive.

  Rook mounted his horse. “I’ll see you back at the general’s,” he said, leaving at a trot. Fick ran behind, trying to keep up.

  Portia slurped at the soup, enjoying the taste but more interested in filling her belly. Her meal was gone in a few spoonfuls. The last part of her journey from Charleston had been hard. She had grown cold, sore, and hungry. There were moments when she wanted to push out of her box, give up, and go back home, whate
ver the consequences.

  A blanket covered her shoulders and another wrapped her legs. Beneath them, she wore the clothes of the man who found her behind a shed. He sat a few feet away from her. His own bowl of soup was still mostly full.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anybody down my soup so quickly,” said Nat. “Keep that up, and you’re gonna make me think I’m a good cook.”

  Portia smiled. She was weak, but not so weak she could not appreciate a joke—especially one coming from a man who may have saved her.

  “Want more?” asked Nat, nodding toward her empty bowl.

  “Yes, please.”

  As Nat took her bowl and ladled soup from a pot in the next room, Portia reached into her shirt for the picture her grandfather had given her. She knew it was there because she must have felt for it a hundred times during her train trip. But she had not actually laid eyes on it since she was in South Carolina. It was a little more crinkled, but essentially the same: a black-and-white image of a man she had never seen.

  Nat turned around just as she was thrusting it back into her shirt. She hoped he had not seen it.

  “What’s that?” he asked as he handed her a steaming bowl.

  “What’s what?”

  “You put a piece of paper into your shirt. I see the corner stickin’ out.”

  Portia looked down, and there indeed was the corner. She pulled out the picture and flashed it.

  “It’s just a picture. Nothin’ important.”

  She put the picture back in her shirt, this time making sure none of it was exposed. She was irritated with herself for letting Nat have a look. She was grateful to him for what he had done, but she did not know whether she could tell him about her real purpose for being in Washington. Her grandfather had said only Lincoln was to see that picture, and she intended to follow his instructions.

  “This soup is wonderful,” she said, wanting to change the subject.

  “Tell me about yourself,” said Nat. “The only thing I know is your name and that you jumped out of that box on the platform.”