The First Assassin

by John J. Miller

  “Sir,” said Rook, “perhaps you should let us handle this matter—”

  “So that I can go back to sleep?” said Lincoln. “Ha! Nobody can sleep through this racket. Now, who wants to speak to the president?”

  Hay shrugged. “You had better just tell him, Colonel,” he said.

  “This woman, sir,” said Rook. “Her name is Portia. We don’t know anything about her except that she was found in the bushes outside.”

  “I see,” said Lincoln. “Tell me, Portia, what is it you would like to discuss with the president of the United States of America.”

  Portia narrowed her eyes. “You’re President Abe Lincoln?”

  “I’ve been called much worse.”

  Portia did not say anything immediately. Lincoln smiled, trying to put her at ease.

  “I’ve come a long way to give you somethin’,” she said, reaching into her pocket.

  As she made this move, one of the Frontier Guardsmen raised a pistol and pointed it at Portia. “No tricks,” he warned, moving the gun closer to her than was probably necessary. He looked as though he would enjoy shooting her. Portia froze in place, her hand hidden beneath her clothes.

  “Calm down,” said Rook sharply.

  “She’s just a stupid slave girl,” sneered the man. “She doesn’t even deserve to be in this house.”

  Everyone tensed. Rook thought about pulling out his own pistol to protect Portia, but he hesitated just long enough for Lincoln to speak up. “Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.”

  The Frontier Guards broke into laughter. Their trigger-happy comrade looked embarrassed. “Why don’t you lower that gun,” said the president. The man obeyed. Rook was amazed at the effect.

  “Now, Portia, what do you have for me?” asked Lincoln.

  Portia looked around nervously. From her pocket, she removed a small piece of paper and turned it face up. The light in the hallway was weak, but Rook could see that it was a photograph. Portia held it out.

  Lincoln took the picture and raised it close to his face, squinting at the image. He stared at it for what seemed like quite a while.

  “I’ve seen this man before,” he said, still looking at the picture. “He came to me for a job recently. I don’t immediately recall his name. He was good with riddles.” He handed the photograph to Hay. “Do you remember seeing him?”

  Hay studied the image. “Yes. I recognize the ear, or rather the lack of one. I let him into your office. I’d have to look at the records to get his name.”

  “I know his name,” said Portia. “It’s Mazorca.”

  “An unusual name,” said Lincoln. “I don’t think that’s what he called himself with me. Why are you showing me his picture?”

  “The man in that picture is gonna try to kill you,” said Portia. A murmur of voices rumbled through the hallway.

  “Mr. President,” said Rook, “we need to talk.”

  SIXTEEN

  THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 1861

  A few minutes after eight o’clock, Rook walked into the meeting room of the Winder Building. Portia followed him in. All of the conversations between the officers immediately stopped. Those who were not already seated scrambled for their chairs, almost like schoolchildren who dashed to their desks upon the first sight of their teacher. The only sound came from the ticking of a clock.

  The colonel had wondered what his reception would be like. He now realized that there would be no friendly greetings or informal pleasantries. The only exception was Springfield, who nodded almost imperceptibly at him. The two men had not seen each other since the previous day at Tabard’s. Springfield never before had attended one of Scott’s meetings—as a sergeant, his rank was too low—but Rook had sent him a note overnight requesting his presence. The colonel was counting on him to make an important contribution.

  Portia’s nighttime appearance at the White House had led to several important connections. Rook learned that she came from the Bennett plantation in South Carolina, carrying the picture of a man supposedly sent to murder the president. Langston Bennett corresponded with Violet Grenier, a secessionist who seemed to sit at the center of a conspiracy. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together, even if the full picture remained unclear.

  All eyes were on Rook, who remained standing. The colonel thought he detected a mix of curiosity and skepticism. At the opposite end of the room, sitting furthest from the door, was Scott. He looked positively hostile, with crossed arms. Locke sat to his left, trying to mimic the general’s posture and expression. On the other side of the general sat Seward. Rook had not expected to see him.

  Scott was obviously irritated. Having a good sleep interrupted for any reason made the general grumpy. Having it ruined the way it was just a few hours ago, when a messenger from the White House banged on his door in the middle of the night and delivered an urgent note whose contents seemed to undermine so much of what he had been saying over the last several weeks—that was downright humiliating. And Scott disliked few things more than personal humiliation.

  Anybody who knew Scott even a little knew this much about him, and Rook had admired the tactful way in which President Lincoln phrased his note to his top general. There was no attempt to complain or disgrace. It was a simple order, issued delicately:

  My dear sir:

  In the morning, you will be pleased to receive Col. Rook. He will convey information of the utmost importance.

  Your obedient servant,

  A. LINCOLN

  Rook was gratified to see it written and dispatched. At the same time, he knew that it left a lot unsaid. He understood that it would be his responsibility not only to say it but also to impress Scott and the others with its significance.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Rook. Several of the officers mumbled responses. The general continued to glare in silence. “Let me bring you up to date on the events of the last day, culminating with an extraordinary encounter late last night at the White House.”

  Rook knew it would be difficult to summarize his recent activities and how he came to know what he knew. He did not want to attribute any blunders to Scott, at least not yet. A genuine threat against the president needed to take precedence.

  “This is Portia, the little woman who is responsible for our meeting this morning,” he said. He described her journey from South Carolina to the White House. He mentioned the photograph and how both Lincoln and Hay had recognized the man in the picture.

  “It appears as though an assassin has been in the presence of our commander-in-chief,” said Rook. “His name is Mazorca, and this is what he looks like.” He removed the photograph from a pocket and held it up. The image was too small for everyone to see at once, so Rook handed it to a major who was seated next to him. “Please take a good look and pass it around.”

  The picture moved halfway round the table, with each officer plus Seward taking a quick glance, until it arrived at Scott’s place. The general stared at it for a long time. Nobody had said anything since Rook began his report. All wanted the see the reaction of the general prior to forming their own opinions. Would he accept Rook’s logic?

  “So, Colonel,” said Scott as he set the photograph on the table rather than passing it on, “you found it impossible to work underneath me and decided to go over my head.”

  “Sir, this is an amazing development that none of us could have foreseen—”

  Locke broke in, almost shouting. “How do you know that this slave woman is telling the truth? She is a fugitive who ought to be returned to her rightful owner.”

  Around the table, a number of heads nodded in agreement. Several others, however, were visibly annoyed at the suggestion. Here was the question that divided the nation, writ small.

  “She has no reason to lie,” said Rook with agitation. “Let’s remember the focus of this conversation—it’s not about her.” He gestured to Portia and then walked around the table and grabbed the photogra
ph from the spot where Scott had set it down. “It’s about him.” He held the picture at arm’s length, showing its image to the officers. “This man wants to murder the president. He may have come very close to doing it already. We must stop him from making a new attempt.”

  The room erupted into a chaos of voices as several officers spoke at once. Rook could barely hear what any of them said. Soon, however, he became most interested in the one officer who was not saying anything at all: Springfield had not taken his eyes off the photograph since Rook had held it up for the second time.

  The sergeant rose from his chair, walked over to Rook, and asked for the picture. Rook gave it to him. Springfield looked at it intensely. He stroked his mustache. It was not long before everybody in the room noticed what he was doing. His deep interest in the photograph could mean only one thing, and everybody knew it.

  “I’ve seen this man before,” said Springfield. “I know where he lives.”

  Mazorca delayed his return to Tabard’s boardinghouse until the middle of the morning. He had not lingered long at the cabin in Maryland. He had eaten a quick supper, dragged the body of the man he had killed to a nearby stand of trees, and left the scene. He had taken a roundabout route home, avoiding the bridge he had crossed in the morning, using less-traveled roads, and coming into Washington from the north. This was faithful to his plan of keeping his movements irregular. At dawn, as he approached the city, he decided to give his fellow boarders time to eat their breakfasts and leave for their jobs. The less contact he had with them, the better. When he finally walked through the front door, he was exhausted and ready to sleep.

  Tabard was in the dining room, wiping the table with a rag. “Good morning, Mr. Mays,” she said.

  “Good morning,” replied Mazorca. He headed straight for the stairs.

  “You will find a letter in your room,” said Tabard. “It arrived yesterday. I slipped it under your door.”

  “Thank you,” called Mazorca without pausing as he made his way up to the second floor.

  In truth, he was not at all thankful. He immediately regretted giving his address to Grenier. She was the only person who would have known it. He did not want to be contacted by anyone—even her. Then again, perhaps she had something important to tell him. Maybe she had learned an important detail about Lincoln’s security or his whereabouts.

  He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and looked at the floor. There was no letter. He shut the door and scanned the entire room. He saw nothing and wondered whether Tabard had slid the envelope under the door with such force that it had coasted to the opposite wall. He looked under his bed, behind his trunk, and below the window. The search turned up nothing. The letter simply was not in the room.

  A troubling thought gripped him. What if Tabard had put it under the wrong door? What if one of the other boarders had opened it?

  Mazorca examined the room again. Still no letter. Something was definitely amiss. He thought about the strand of hair he had plucked from his head and positioned in the trunk. He raised the lid of the trunk slowly, not wanting a sudden motion to blow the hair from its place. Peering inside, his clothes appeared to be where he had left them. But the hair was gone.

  Mazorca marched down the stairs and into the dining room, where Tabard was arranging a new centerpiece for the table.

  “Mrs. Tabard, what did you say as I walked up the steps a few minutes ago?”

  A look of concern crossed her face. “I said that I had slipped a letter under your door yesterday. Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t know. Are you certain that you slipped it under my door and not somebody else’s?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “There’s no letter in my room.”

  “Oh dear,” said Tabard. She pulled out a chair and sat down. The news clearly troubled her. “It came in the morning,” she said, trying to recall details. “You hadn’t been gone for very long—just a few minutes, actually. I even looked out the doorway to see if you were in sight. I didn’t think you would be, and you weren’t, but that’s how close the arrival of the letter followed your departure. When I didn’t see you, I went straight upstairs and put it under your door.”

  Mazorca said nothing. A worried look appeared on Tabard’s face. “I am absolutely certain of this,” she said. “I recall it distinctly. I did not make a mistake.”

  Either she was telling the truth, or she was an adept liar, thought Mazorca. His instincts told him to believe her. So did the missing piece of hair.

  “What can you tell me about the envelope?” he asked.

  “How big was it? What did it say on the outside? Tell me everything you remember.”

  Tabard did her best, but there was not much to report: it was a small envelope, off-white in color. It was thin and probably contained only a page or two inside, though Tabard could not say for sure because she had not opened it. She didn’t recall any writing on the outside except his name and the address. Mazorca asked her several more questions but failed to learn additional details.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Mays,” said Tabard. “It sounds like a very important letter. I’ll be sure to ask the other guests whether they saw it.”

  Mazorca thought about this for a moment. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said as he turned toward the stairs. “There must be some other explanation. I’m going to search the room again.”

  He had no intention of doing that. He knew the letter was not there. And that meant he had a very serious problem on his hands.

  The officers hushed when Springfield announced that he had recognized the man in the photograph. “I’ve seen this man in the flesh,” he said. “The mangled ear—I am certain of it.” He looked squarely at Rook. “Mazorca is Mr. Mays, the man we investigated yesterday at the boardinghouse.”

  “If he is our assassin, we can stop him right now,” said Rook, looking directly at Scott. “Just give the order, sir.”

  The general took a deep breath. “Let me make sure I have this straight,” he said slowly. “A slave woman has given us a photo that is said to contain the image of a man who wants to murder the president. The president himself has identified the man in the photo as a person who met with him recently, almost certainly under false pretenses. And now Sergeant Springfield says that he has seen this man and that the two of you know where he may be found.”

  For the first time that morning, Rook heard Scott speak with something other than irritation in his voice. He seemed to be genuinely contemplating what he had just heard. “Is there a connection to Violet Grenier?” he asked.

  Rook was glad that the general had mentioned her name—he did not want to bring it up on his own. “Actually, sir, there is.” He explained how their surveillance of Grenier had led them to the man at Tabard’s, and how Grenier had received correspondence from Bennett, from whom Portia had escaped. “We don’t know exactly how she is tied to all of this, but there is almost certainly a relationship.”

  “Where was she last night?”

  Rook did not want to sound frustrated with the general whose very orders had made it impossible to answer the question he now asked. “We didn’t have her under surveillance, sir,” he said as plainly as possible.

  “Right, of course not,” said Scott, almost to himself, as he realized his mistake. He asked to see the photograph again and studied it with intensity. The mood in the room began to shift as the officers witnessed Scott reconsider his most recent judgments. Rook felt a tremendous urge to criticize the general—to accuse him of imperiling Lincoln’s life by ignoring security concerns that had been brought to his attention. It was difficult to remain quiet, but Rook knew how important it was for Scott to arrive at the obvious conclusion on his own rather than having it thrust at him.

  At last, with his eyes on Rook, the general held up the photograph. “We must find this man,” he said, with a determination that Rook found gratifying.

  There were nods of agreement around the room. Rook noticed that Locke was not amon
g them.

  “General,” pleaded Locke, “this is really quite extraordinary. Colonel Rook is suggesting that Violet Grenier, a respected citizen of this city, is part of a ludicrous conspiracy. I smell a hoax. You are basing your conclusion on the testimony of a slave woman!” He spoke these final two words with utter contempt.

  Portia recoiled, but only for a second. “I don’t know who you are or why you think you’re better than me, and I don’t really care,” she said sternly. Rook thought about trying to stop her, but even if he could he was not sure he wanted to. “Me and a lotta other folks put it all on the line to get that picture here. I saw a friend of mine die. I ain’t gonna see my family again. You can call me a liar, but you’re a coward.”

  Locke jumped out of his chair. “That is no way for you to talk to me!” he hollered, his face red with anger. “That is no way for a fugitive negress to speak to a white man!”

  Rook wanted to reach across the room and slug him, but Scott made sure this was not necessary. “Shut up, Locke!” roared the general.

  Locke was astonished. Was Scott really taking the side of a runaway slave over his loyal aide? It was a remarkable turn of events.

  “Now that you’ve shut up, sit down,” sputtered Scott. “I don’t care what you think about proper decorum. I find this woman’s story credible, and we will act upon the information she has presented to us.”

  Locke dropped into his seat, crushed by the general’s words.

  “On behalf of myself and my officers, please accept my apologies,” said Scott, looking at Portia. “The best way to make amends is for us to do our duty.”

  Scott let the words sink in. Then he began to develop a plan. A group of soldiers would immediately rush to Tabard’s and place Mazorca under surveillance; if he had collaborators, Scott wanted to find them. Springfield would join them, but only after helping several other soldiers establish surveillance around Violet Grenier’s. Rook would oversee all aspects of the operation.