The First Assassin

NINE

THURSDAY, APRIL 18, 1861

The big, black ball rested on top of its pole above the Naval Observatory’s dome. That meant nobody was late. At least not yet, thought Rook, as he walked the final block toward his daily meeting with Springfield and Clark. For several weeks, they had gathered at the foot of the observatory, right by the river at the corner of New York Avenue and Twenty-third Street. They were supposed to begin promptly at noon, a time marked by the ball of black canvas, which was as wide as a doorway. It dropped at twelve, every day and without error. Across the city, people set their clocks by its fall.

Rook watched Springfield approach. As the sergeant came near, Rook nodded a greeting. “Where’s Corporal Clark?” he asked.

“He’ll be here,” replied Springfield.

The black ball twitched and began its slow descent. Just then, Clark turned a corner and came into view on New York Avenue. He was walking at a swift pace. Springfield chuckled as Rook made a show of gazing up at the ball and then at Clark, who got the message immediately and broke into a trot. By the time he joined his companions, the ball was resting on the top of the observatory’s dome. “Sorry, sir,” he said, looking up at the ball.

“Instead of being sorry, be on time,” scolded Rook, who then turned to Springfield. “If you let a subordinate break little rules, it won’t be long before he breaks big ones.”

This was more than Rook could say for himself. Here he was, meeting with Springfield and Clark-both good men-to discuss activities that his own superior officer had told him to stop.

“Sergeant, what’s the latest from Lafayette Park?” he asked.

Like Clark, Springfield was dressed in plain clothes rather than his blue uniform. He had been posted to Lafayette Park, across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. Instead of keeping an eye on the president, however, Rook had ordered him to watch over the houses that lined the park. These were some of the most prominent addresses in the city-James and Dolley Madison once had lived there, and now the neighborhood was home to everyone from Secretary of State William Seward to Massachusetts senator Charles Sumner. Rook had told Springfield to pay close attention to Sumner’s residence. Among Southern radicals, perhaps only Lincoln was more scorned. Just five years earlier the senator had been assaulted on the floor of the Senate by a South Carolina congressman who objected to one of Sumner’s abolitionist speeches. Southerners hailed the attacker as a hero. It took Sumner more than three years to recover from his injuries.

Yet protecting Sumner was not Springfield’s only objective, or even the main one. Rook actually had told Springfield to spend most of his time watching over the neighborhood’s Southerners-his primary duty was not protection, but surveillance. Rook wanted the sergeant to determine if any of the secessionists in the neighborhood were more than mere agitators. So far, he had not experienced a great deal of success. A single man covering several city blocks can accomplish only so much, and Springfield’s most interesting observations up to now involved a couple of households packing up and departing across the Potomac. That was the content of his report on this day as well: yet another family with Southern loyalties was making plans to move away. Alarmed by Lincoln’s plan to call up troops from the North, they decided to leave before it was too late.

Rook listened to this patiently and then asked the question that had been on his mind since his last conversation with Scott.

“What can you tell me about Violet Grenier?”

“An interesting woman. Definitely a secessionist. She lives in a big house across Lafayette Park from the president’s mansion. She receives many visitors, including plenty of important ones-senators, congressmen, and so on. Not all of them are Southerners. Most in the secesh crowd stick with those who agree with them. Grenier is the exception.”

“Anything suspicious?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s a busy household for just one woman, but I don’t see anything suspicious in that. Just bear in mind that I haven’t kept an eye on her around the clock. I may have missed things.”

“Please watch her closely. I’d like more information on her. She seems to pull many wires in Washington.”

“Yes, sir.”

Now Rook turned toward Clark. “And what have you seen at Brown’s Hotel?”

Clark described the events of the previous night-the sudden appearance of ragged-looking strangers, their reappearance in the lobby, and the snatches of overheard conversation. Rook listened without expression until Clark got to the part about them apparently planning to watch a building crumble.

Springfield perked up. “Do they plan to sabotage a building?”

“I don’t know,” said Clark. “But that seems like a possibility.”

“Unless we’re letting our imaginations get the better of us,” said Rook. He was not trying to rebuke Clark for making the report or Springfield for taking an interest in it, but he did want to encourage clear thinking.

“There’s more,” said Clark. “I went back to Brown’s this morning and got their names from the hotel registry. That’s why I was late getting here a few minutes ago. It was a dumb oversight on my part, not doing it last night. But I didn’t think of it until I had walked out the door, and I hardly felt like I could go back and check and remain inconspicuous.”

“So, what are their names?”

Clark reached into a pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He handed it to Rook. As the colonel looked at it, he raised his eyebrows.

“Jeff Davis? Alex Stephens? You can’t be serious.”

“That’s what I thought too,” said Clark. “But those are the names they used when they checked in.”

“You mean Jeff Davis, as in Jefferson Davis? And Alex Stephens, as in Alexander Stephens, the vice president of this so-called Confederacy?” asked Springfield.

“Yes.”

Springfield craned his neck to see the paper Rook was holding. In addition to Davis and Stephens, there were two other names on the list: S. R. Mallory and Bobby Toombs.

“The other names are taken from the Confederate cabinet,” said Rook. “Mallory heads their war department, and Toombs is their secretary of state. Your friends must have something to hide. Even so, going by these particular assumed names strikes me as reckless.”

“It’s like they’re trying to taunt us,” agreed Clark.

“I want to observe these men myself, Corporal. Keep them under close watch. Tomorrow’s meeting here is canceled. Instead, Clark and I will go to Brown’s.”

With the sun almost straight overhead, Portia stood beside the trunk of an oak tree to catch its shade. She had spent the night awake, worrying about the promise she had made to her grandfather. Several times she had decided to back out. But she kept returning to the sight of him staring at her in the stables, his bright eyes shining in the darkness with an urgent plea. She imagined that this was probably how she had looked at him whenever she had wanted some small favor growing up. He had been so good to her over the years. Just last night, he had turned away that awful man Hughes. Her grandfather might not be around to protect her the next time. By morning, she had resolved to escape. But there was something she wanted to do first.

Portia leaned against the tree and watched a few dozen slaves stoop in the fields. She saw her two older brothers trying to fix a broken plow. She recalled how they had run off before. Anthony and Theo were always talking about getting away. Anthony was a dreamer. He boasted of making it to the North and earning enough money to buy his whole family from Mr. Bennett. Portia could remember him getting away three times, but the longest he was gone was about two days.

He had only traveled a few miles when the slave catchers found him.

Theo’s plans were not nearly as grand. He just talked about freedom and cared less about where he found it. He also had escaped three times, but he had not headed anywhere in particular. He just went lying out in the woods nearby, fishing for food and sleeping under the stars. Once he was gone for almost a month. But each time he came back, usually because he had gotten hungry-it was a lot easier to eat food from a plate than it was to catch rabbits. Her brothers were punished for what they did, but not so severely that they never thought of taking the risk again.

What if she ran off and was caught? She would suffer the lash, the bite of which she had never known. It would be unpleasant, but she would get over it. A worse feeling would come from the knowledge that her grandfather had made an earnest request and she had turned him down. That kind of pain might never heal.

Anthony and Theo continued to fuss over the plow. They argued until a third slave approached. He seemed to know exactly what was wrong. The brothers stood silently as he explained what to do. The sight gladdened Portia-not because she cared about the plow, but because this was Big Joe. He was exactly the person she wanted to see.

“Hello, boys,” she said as she walked up to the group.

“Hey, sis,” said Anthony and Theo together. It was how they always greeted her. Big Joe was silent.

“Did Joe show you how to fix this thing?” she asked.

“He showed Theo how to fix it,” said Anthony. “I knew what to do all along. Your dumb brother wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Shut up, Anthony. You don’t even know which end of this thing goes in the ground.”

“Who’s tellin’ the truth, Joe?” asked Portia.

“They would’ve figured it out eventually,” he said.

Portia smiled. She really liked Big Joe. His modesty attracted her. He did not speak much, but when he did, he generally knew what he was talking about. She had seen him end plenty of arguments just by offering a piece of advice. Everybody called him Big Joe because he had grown so much larger than his father, who earned the name Little Joe as soon as his son began to dwarf him. Little Joe was not small, but his only boy was the size of an ox. He was probably the strongest man on the whole plantation, and one of the gentlest, too.

Portia had noticed Joe staring at her every now and then over the last several months. A lot of the male slaves eyed her-she was probably more eligible than any other young woman on the plantation. Her mother kept telling her she was definitely the prettiest and that she ought to find a man before one found her. Her brothers just teased her about it.

“Come with me, Joe. I gotta talk to you about something,” said Portia. She glanced at her brothers. “And I wanna do it alone.”

Anthony and Theo whooped when they heard this. Their racket made Joe blush.

“Boys!” shouted Portia. “Shut up and fix the plow!”

This only encouraged them. “She knows what she wants!”

“Portia and Big Joe, steppin’ out!” They were getting louder and starting to attract attention from the other slaves. Portia did not know what to do, so she turned and stomped off a few steps when suddenly they quit their taunts. She looked back and saw Joe holding both of them by their collars.

“The lady told you to fix the plow,” he said in a low voice.

“I showed you how. Now do it.” He released his grip and walked toward Portia. The brothers did not utter another word.

“Sorry about them,” said Portia as she walked with Joe toward the slave cabins.

“No harm done.”

They walked for a few minutes in silence through the fields. Portia was about to say something when she spotted Tate. The overseer jogged toward them. His whip, coiled through a belt, bounced at his side.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

The two slaves stopped. Portia could tell Big Joe was nervous.

“Joe’s mama asked me to fetch him. She wants him to move something.”

“It can wait. Joe, get back to work.”

Joe started to turn away, but Portia grabbed his elbow.

“Hold on,” she said. “Mr. Tate, Joe’s mama is cookin’ something big for tonight’s dinner in the mansion. She’s got a huge pot of stew goin’ and needs it moved. I’m not even sure what she’s tryin’ to do with it. I just know it’s big and she needs a quick hand. She asked for Joe. He can move it and come straight back.”

Tate glared at her. He said nothing for a moment, and then he looked at Joe. He caressed the lash on his hip with the tips of his fingers. What an intimidator, thought Portia.

“Joe,” he said at last, sticking his finger in the big slave’s chest, “I’ll give you ten minutes. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

“Yessir, Mr. Tate.”

The two slaves walked off as Tate watched them. Big Joe had an extra spring in his step now. “You didn’t say nothin’ about my mama,” he said as soon as they were out of Tate’s range of hearing.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I haven’t seen your mama all mornin’.”

Big Joe paused in his tracks. “What’s going on?”

“Just come with me.”

“I don’t know,” he said, looking in Tate’s direction. The overseer had his back to them now and was starting to holler at some poor slave for not working fast enough.

“He’s tryin’ to bully you,” she said. “He’s probably already forgotten you’re over here.”

He looked down at her, then back at Tate.

“Joe,” she said, touching his arm lightly, “please come with me.”

“All right. But we can’t be long.”

They walked briskly now. When they arrived at a row of slave cabins, Portia stopped and looked around. Nobody in the fields could see them. A pair of old ladies sat stitching shirts and trousers about fifty feet away. Portia knew Mary’s hearing was not very good, and Bessie had gone deaf. Other than these two, they were out of sight and alone. As it happened, they stood right outside the cabin Joe shared with his mother and a few others.

She gestured in the direction of the kitchen, which they could see up the path near the mansion. It was separate from the plantation home because fires so often started in kitchens. It was much easier to rebuild a kitchen than a mansion. “He’ll think we’ve gone there.”

“What’s this about, Portia?”

“I’m leavin’ the plantation tonight.”

“What? You been sold?”

“No. I’m runnin’ off.”

Joe became wide-eyed. “Don’t do it, Portia. They’ll catch you and beat you. A lot of the folks talk about gettin’ away, but they ain’t never made it. Not once. You know that.”

“I’m goin’, Joe, and you can’t change my mind.”

Joe did not reply immediately. Portia could tell he was wondering about something.

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” he asked. “It would be better if I didn’t know.”

“I want you to come with me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Portia, I like you. I like you a lot-”

“I know you do, Joe. And I like you a lot too.” She touched him on the arm again. “That’s why you gotta come with me.”

“I don’t know-”

She sprang onto the tips of her toes, threw her arms around his neck, and planted a kiss on his lips. Joe was so startled he hardly kissed her back. Then she was standing in front of him again.

“Joe,” she said, “I’m leavin’ tonight. We’re goin’ together and I don’t want to hear excuses. The worst thing that happens is they catch us and bring us back here. Tate won’t like it, Bennett won’t like it-but we’ll have tried it together.” She was speaking louder now, unable to contain her excitement. Joe did not say anything, and Portia took this as a good sign. He wasn’t objecting. His resistance was weakening.

“There’s a photograph,” she continued. “It’s a picture of a man who is gonna to try to kill Abe Lincoln.”

“What?”

“We have to help him.”

“Can I see the picture?”

“I don’t have it with me. My grandfather’s got it.”

“Everybody says Lincoln is gonna free us.”

“He won’t if he’s dead. Please, Joe, let’s take the photograph to people who can keep him alive. We’ve gotta escape, and we gotta start tonight.”

Just then the door behind them flew open. It was Joe’s mother.

“Mama! What’re you doing?”

“Did I just hear what I think I heard?” she said, in a voice that was worried and outraged at the same time. Her name was Sally, and Portia believed she was jealous of her son’s affection. She had not gotten along with Sally ever since Joe’s interest became apparent.

“Mama, we’re just talkin’.”

“You can’t do it, Joe! You can’t leave here! You’re my baby!” Sally came down the steps and glared at Portia. “Does your granddaddy know about this?” It was not a question but a scold. “Get away from my baby boy!” Then she hugged her son and started sobbing.

“We’re just talkin’,” said Joe, hugging his mother back and patting her on the shoulder. “We’re just talkin’.”

Portia circled around to where she could see Joe’s face. He continued to pat his mother, but he stared right at her. His eyes were a little moist. He looked torn. She did not know what he was thinking or what he would do. She figured she had done her best to persuade him. The choice was now his. He kept on staring at her, as if he were waiting for something. She raised her eyebrows and without speaking mouthed the words, “The stables. Tonight. After dark.”

Rook was talking to a private in front of the War Department when he saw Colonel Robert E. Lee exit the Winder Building across the street. The gray hair and beard were unmistakable, and they gave Lee a natural appearance of dignity and maturity. His uniform was crisp and clean, as if he had put it on only a few minutes earlier. His white riding gloves looked as though they had never been used before.

The man carries himself like a king, thought Rook. Lee was, after all, a member of Virginia’s aristocracy. His wife was even related to Martha Washington. There was only one reason for Lee to be at headquarters this afternoon: a meeting with Scott about taking command.

Rook tried to guess at the outcome as Lee mounted his horse, but he had no idea. For a moment, Lee sat in his saddle and stared at the Winder Building. Was he sizing it up or giving it a last look? Then Lee’s head turned to the War Department. He caught Rook’s eye, but his face was expressionless. He nodded to Rook and then headed down Seventeenth Street. He was moving south, toward the river.

Rook hurried across the street. He raced to Scott’s office and immediately saw the disappointment on the old general’s face. Locke sat with his hands folded on his lap. Rook knew instantly what had happened.

“I have just received some very unwelcome news,” said Scott. “Colonel Lee has declined the offer to lead our soldiers.”

“I don’t understand how a man could turn down such an opportunity,” said Locke. “What did he say?”

“He said he opposed secession and civil war, but that he could not stand against Virginia. ‘If the Union is dissolved and the government disrupted, I shall return to my native state and share the miseries of my people and draw my sword on no one except in defense,’ he said. It was a neat little speech, and he seemed genuinely moved by the offer that was made to him.”

“Did he resign his commission?” asked Rook.

“I fully expect him to resign now. I suppose Secretary of War Cameron will receive a note from Arlington in a day or two stating as much.”

By now a few other officers in the building had gathered around the doorway to Scott’s room. They all wanted to hear the account too.

“Did you tell him he was crazy?” asked Locke.

“I told him he was making the greatest mistake of his life. He is a strong-minded man. It is one of the qualities in him that I like best, and one of the reasons why I thought he was ready for this duty.”

Scott noticed the small crowd. “Let us talk of this no more. No good can come of it,” he said, waving his wrist at the men. They took it as an order to disperse. Locke stood up and shut the door. Rook was annoyed that Locke did not put himself on the other side of it.

“Amid this bad news, today we have received some good news,” said the general. “I was heartened by the five companies of troops that arrived from Pennsylvania this morning.”

“It certainly makes the defense of Washington an easier task,” said Rook. “I suppose we could repel an organized attack now.”

“That depends on the size of the attacking force,” said Scott. “I think we need between four and five thousand men in order to defend against any troops raised by Maryland or Virginia in the near future. We are far short of that goal. We simply require more men, and I hope they come soon. I know some are on the way. They cannot get here quickly enough.”

“I have not received any reports of hostile armies assembling nearby,” said Rook.

“Nor have I, but we shouldn’t wait for that to start. If the Virginians raise an army before we prepare to defend ourselves, it will be too late. Just the other day, I heard the president remark that if he were General Beauregard, fresh from firing on Fort Sumter, he would try to take Washington immediately. It probably wouldn’t take much to defeat us here. I just hope they don’t think of it.”

“I believe we’ll be ready for them,” said Rook. “We’ll need more men, but they’re on the way. Virginia will need time too.”

“Colonel, do you know where you are?” asked Scott.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in your office, sir.”

“And where is that?”

Rook had no idea what the general was getting at. He selected his words slowly and carefully, like a man facing a prosecutor during a deposition. “I’m in the city of Washington.”

Scott smiled to ease the nerves of his colonel. “You are in the Winder Building, of course. Do you understand the significance of that?”

“I suspect that I do not.”

“You will recall what happened in 1814. During our war with Britain, the enemy landed an army in Maryland and marched toward Washington. Our troops met them at Bladensburg, just a few miles from here. The soldiers of our country were routed, and Washington was laid bare before the redcoats. They burned the Capitol and torched the White House. If you look closely at those buildings, you can still see the burn marks in a few places. It was a terrible humiliation.”

Rook knew this. He said nothing and let the general continue.

“The American general in command that day at Bladensburg was William Winder. This building, which now houses the headquarters of the United States Army, is named for him-the man who is more responsible than anyone else for our country’s most notorious military defeat.”

Scott let the story settle in Rook’s mind. Then he rammed home his point: “I may sit in a building named for Winder, but I will not follow in his footsteps. On my watch, Washington won’t fall.”

Rook said nothing when Scott was done. He thought that perhaps he should have paid more attention to his history professor at West Point.

“I knew about Winder and the Battle of Bladensburg,” offered Locke.

Rook balled his fists. He wished he could slug Locke.

“Let’s just make sure history doesn’t repeat itself,” said Scott. “That reminds me, how goes the conversion of the Old Capitol?”

The general was referring to the three-story brick structure just to the east of the actual Capitol. It had been built quickly as a place for Congress to meet after the fire in 1814. For a decade, lawmakers met within its walls on the corner of Maryland Avenue and First Street. Since their departure, the building had served as a school and a boardinghouse. The federal government had just repurchased it for use as a prison.

“It will be able to accept prisoners any day now.”

“Excellent. Now, tell me about the arrangements for the new soldiers from Pennsylvania.”

There was a shortage of places to put the troops-the government had mustered several federal buildings into service. The Pennsylvania soldiers would stay in the Capitol. The Patent Office and the Treasury were also available.

“I presume that putting soldiers at the Treasury won’t interfere with our other plans for that building,” said Scott.

“That’s correct,” said Rook. “The Treasury remains the place where we’ll send the president and his cabinet in the event of an attack on Washington. It’s quite a large structure. The basement has enormous storage capacity.”

“I wish we didn’t have to use the Capitol.”

“I agree, General. But you know we don’t have many locations to put soldiers on such short notice. I’m intending to put Jim Lane’s men at the White House when they arrive.”

“Very well. That ought to ease some of your concerns about security.”

“I certainly don’t think we will go the way of General Winder, sir. Our vulnerabilities are elsewhere.”

“Not this subject again,” sputtered Locke.

Scott held up his hand to silence Locke. “Colonel Rook, let me make myself perfectly clear: I do not want to discuss your conspiracy theories anymore. Do not raise them with me again.”

The man who called himself Jeff Davis looked groggy when he finally arrived in the lobby at Brown’s. It appeared as though he had just gotten up, run a comb through his hair, and stumbled downstairs. Although it was the middle of the afternoon, none of his companions was around. He took a table away from the hotel’s front door, in a corner.

Clark sat about a dozen feet away, sipping a cup of tea and pretending to study a newspaper whose entire contents he had already read twice. He avoided looking directly at Davis, who might become suspicious if he recognized Clark from the previous evening. At the moment, Davis’s powers of observation appeared to be dull. Judging from the way he kept rubbing his head, he was fighting a hangover.

Within half an hour, the men who had arrived with Davis wandered into the lobby and joined him at the table. Clark had trouble overhearing their conversation, partly because they were not saying a lot. They worked their way through a meal, mostly in silence. The food seemed to improve their disposition. By the time they were done eating, they looked more like the group that Clark originally had spied upon.

Davis was clearly the leader. He spoke the most and laughed the loudest, and the others appeared to defer to him. They talked about the fall of Fort Sumter and the possibility that Maryland might secede-it was obvious that they supported the attack in Charleston and hoped that legislators in Annapolis would withdraw from the Union. “That would leave Washington all by itself, like a peach that’s ripe for plucking,” said Davis. His gang roared its approval.

The men eventually rose from their chairs. As they shook hands, Clark could tell that the group was splitting up. Two of them made for the door, leaving behind Davis and Stephens. For a moment, Clark thought about following the men who had departed, but he decided it was smarter to remain near Davis. He was the one to watch.

Back in their seats, Davis and Stephens seemed to relax. They even ordered drinks. Clark began to wonder if they were going to waste their night. Yet the two men limited themselves to a single drink apiece. When these were gone, they stood and stretched.

“Tomorrow we scout,” said Davis. “But tonight is ours. I know how I want to spend it.”

Stephens chuckled. “Yeah, me too!”

They exited through the hotel’s front door. Clark waited a minute, set down his newspaper, and chased after them. The afternoon had passed more quickly than he had realized. The shadows were growing long, and dusk was preparing to settle onto the city.

On the curb of Pennsylvania Avenue, Clark watched a horse-drawn omnibus kick up a small cloud of dust as it pulled toward Georgetown. For a moment, he feared that Davis and Stephens had hopped on board and that he had lost them. He would not be able to catch up to the vehicle without calling attention to himself. Then he spotted the duo on the other side of the street, walking by the vendors outside of Central Market.

Clark immediately had a notion of where they were heading, but he wanted to be sure. He stayed on his side of the Avenue and kept pace. They passed Eighth Street, then Ninth Street. They paused at the corner of Tenth. Davis seemed to indicate a desire to turn. Stephens pointed up the Avenue but quickly relented. They went left, walking south, and soon dropped out of Clark’s sight.

This took them into the heart of Murder Bay, a section of Washington that was both built up and run-down. It was possibly the most dangerous part of the city-a lair of pickpockets, con men, and worse. Unlike other areas of the city, there were no wide-open spaces in Murder Bay. The streets were cramped by two-and three-story structures that stood in various states of disrepair. Many of them housed drinking establishments, though Clark was fairly certain that Davis and Stephens were not trying to quench a liquid thirst. They did not have to leave Brown’s for that. Murder Bay was also a popular destination for gamblers, so perhaps they would try their hands at a game of chance. Yet Clark suspected that they sought a different sort of recreation.

Clark hustled across Pennsylvania Avenue and stood on the same corner, at Tenth Street, where Davis and Stephens had had their quick debate. He spotted them half a block away. Davis removed a wallet from his pocket, opened it, counted his cash, and handed a few notes to Stephens. The two men looked at each other and grinned, then entered an establishment called Madam Russell’s Bake Oven.

With that, Clark knew how Davis and Stephens intended to spend their second night in Washington. He had never been inside Madam Russell’s Bake Oven, but he knew that nobody visited it for the cooking.

Beneath a clear sky full of stars and a moon that was nearly full, Portia slipped into the stables carrying a small sack. She saw nothing out of the ordinary. The only noises she heard came from the horses.

A moment later, another person shuffled into the stables. Portia dropped to a crouch. She rose again when she saw that it was her grandfather. Lucius saw her too. They quickly embraced.

“Thanks for bein’ here,” said Lucius.

“I don’t wanna let you down.”

“I know-and I know you won’t.”

Lucius let go of her and made a quick search of the building. Every individual stall received a short inspection. While this was going on, Portia stuck her head outside. She was disappointed not to see anybody.

“There ain’t much time,” said Lucius when he was done. He reached inside a pocket and pulled out the photograph. “Here it is,” he said, handing it to her. “This is the whole reason for what you’re gonna do.”

Portia strained to see the photograph, but it was too dark. She stuffed it into her bag.

“What else is in there?”

“Just some food.”

“Lemme see.”

Portia opened the sack.

“That’s enough for two people. I don’t want you goin’ hungry, but that’s gonna slow you down. You can find food on the road.”

“I just wanna be prepared.”

“All right,” said the old man, warily. “Let’s make this short so you can get goin’. I’m gonna set you up with a horse. You’ll wanna stay off the main roads and travel at night, and it’ll take a couple of nights.”

Lucius described a route to Charleston that would keep her on some less-traveled roads.

“When I get to Charleston, what do I do?”

“You remember Nelly?”

“Sure I do. She works next door to Mr. Bennett’s.”

“That’s right. She asks about you all the time. She knows someone who can help slaves get to the North. I don’t know who it is or how it works. Nelly’s a talker, but the truth is, she usually knows what she’s talkin’ about.”

Just then they both heard the sound of a foot scraping at the doorway. Lucius froze in place, but Portia jumped up. She ran over to Big Joe and put her arms around him. Then she took him by the hand and led him to her grandfather.

“What’s goin’ on?” asked Lucius.

“Big Joe is comin’ with me.”

“That ain’t a good idea, Portia.”

“I want him to come.”

“This is trouble. There’ll be two horses gone instead of one and twice as many tracks to follow.”

“Grandpa, he’s comin’ with me.”

Lucius shook his head. “I’m hopin’ to get through the whole day tomorrow without anybody thinkin’ too hard about where you’re at, Portia. I can cover for you much longer than I can cover you and him together. Tate will start missin’ Joe early in the mornin’. Bringin’ him is a big mistake.”

“Grandpa, he’s comin’ with me.”

“Joe, have you told your mother about this?”

Joe didn’t say anything right away, and it suddenly occurred to Portia that he had not actually agreed to escape with her. Maybe he was here to tell her that he was staying put.

“Your mother is gonna be a mess. Have you thought of that?”

Portia still held Joe’s hand. She squeezed it.

“Yep,” said the big man. “I’m goin’ with Portia.” He squeezed her hand back.

“Mr. Bennett’s gonna send dogs after you. Chasin’ two people is a whole lot easier than chasin’ one.”

Portia and Joe did not say anything. For the first time, Lucius saw their clasped hands. It occurred to him that if they were caught, their motive could be explained as a crazy elopement. They would still be punished, though perhaps not as severely. The reputation of Joe’s jealous mother would make the story credible. Everybody knew about Sally.

“I’m not gonna change your minds, am I?”

“No,” said Portia and Joe at the same time.

“We could talk about this all night, but that’s only gonna slow you down.” He looked at Portia. “Have you told him why you’re doin’ this?”

“He knows.”

“And Joe, do you understand why that picture needs to get to Abe Lincoln?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“OK. Let’s send you two off to Charleston. When you get there, find Nelly. She’ll take care of the rest.”

Portia watched Lucius and Joe move to the center of the stable and discuss which horses to take. They picked a pair, saddled them, and led them to the door. Joe held the reins while Lucius stepped outside to make sure the runaways would not be seen.

“Thank you for doin’ this,” whispered Portia. She gave Joe a quick kiss on the cheek.

Lucius came back in. “Looks clear. There’s a light comin’ from the manor, but I don’t think you’ll be seen. Ride quiet till you hit the main road, and then follow my directions. Be careful, too. Don’t travel too fast. It’s easy to go the wrong way in the dark.”

They led the horses from the stables. Lucius helped Portia onto hers and then put his hand on Joe’s shoulder.

“You take good care of her.”

“Don’t worry, Lucius. We’re a team now.”

Lucius looked at his granddaughter. “If you’re caught, destroy the photo. If Mr. Bennett hears about it, he’s gonna get madder than we’ve ever seen. From now on, there’s only one person who should see that picture, and that’s Abe Lincoln.”