The First Assassin

ELEVEN

SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1861

Mazorca had wanted to look inside the narrow brick house at 398 Sixteenth Street, but the pair of first-floor windows was too high off the ground and the shutters were closed anyway. If he had not known better, he might have assumed that the house was locked and abandoned, like so many others in Washington. But about an hour earlier he had watched its two occupants descend the steps and walk toward Lafayette Park. Mazorca then slipped into an alley about halfway down the block. A door in the back was locked, but a window next to it was not. Mazorca pulled himself through and began to inspect the three-story home.

Now that he was in, he wanted to look back out. He went to one of the tall windows on the front of the house, pushed the shutter slats open, and peeked through. A carriage rolled by on Sixteenth Street. Across the street sat St. John’s Church, a yellow building with Doric columns. He glanced to his right, across Lafayette Park. Mazorca knew that President Lincoln’s mansion lay within rifle range, at least for a very good marksman, but the angle from here was too severe to see much of it. It was not a good view.

Upstairs, he searched a library and several bedrooms. A curled-up cat slept on one of the beds. It looked surprised to see him, but not so alarmed that it failed to fall back asleep a few minutes later. Mazorca checked the view to the south from the windows on these top floors. As he expected, their lines of sight were no better.

In the library, stacks of correspondence indicated the woman living in the house was a prolific letter writer, or at least a person who received many letters in the mail. A large collection of maps suggested an interest in cartography, except that they were all local and many were marked. If there really was an interest, it was not academic.

Mazorca did not read any of the letters or study the maps. Instead he returned to the red-walled front parlor and sat down in the tete-a-tete, positioning himself in the part of the S-shaped couch that faced the doorway. The room did not let in much light with the shutters closed, so at first he just sat there. He did not want to turn on the gas lamp beside him.

Patience was a virtue in his line of work. The prospect of sitting in the parlor an hour or two did not bother him. He was only a few minutes into his wait, however, when he decided to reach for a pair of books resting on a table next to his seat. He had noticed them earlier, but their spines were turned away and he could not see their titles. Pulling them into his lap, he opened to their title pages: A Treatise on Field Fortifications by Dennis Hart Mahan and the first volume of Infantry Tactics by Winfield Scott.

He returned the Mahan book to its place and began to read the one by Scott. He hoped it might provide some insight into the mind of this legendary general, but the book was a dry text for military officers. Mazorca had an interest in these matters, however, and decided to pass the time with Scott’s thoughts on drills, maneuvers, and drum signals. He adjusted the book to catch what dim light came in from the shuttered window. As he flipped through its pages, however, his own thoughts kept drifting back to the question of why a woman-and one described to him as a socialite, no less-would choose to read the words of Mahan and Scott. It was a peculiar pursuit, even in these troubled times.

An hour later, Mazorca heard shoes scraping on steps outside the front door. He put the Scott book back on the table. A key scratched against a lock and found the keyhole. The door squeaked back on hinges that needed oiling. It let in a blinding light but was shut almost immediately. Mazorca could see clearly again in the shadowy room. Someone had entered. He watched her from just a few feet away. She was by herself and did not see him.

Grenier stood by the door and let her eyes adjust to the poor light. Mazorca could not tell when she first saw him. She did not jump in surprise or even flinch slightly. Instead, she just cocked her head to one side, trying to recognize the uninvited guest who sat cross-legged on her couch. Her composure was remarkable.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grenier.”

“Do I know you?”

“We haven’t met.”

“You’ve chosen an odd way to make my acquaintance, sir.”

“These are odd days, Mrs. Grenier.”

“And you appear to be an odd man. I would like to know what you’re doing in my house.”

Mazorca rose from his seat slowly. He did not want to appear threatening, even though Grenier seemed unusually difficult to startle. From a pocket on the inside of his coat, he removed an envelope and held it out. “This may answer your question,” he said.

She did not reach for it. She did not even look at it. Instead she simply stared at Mazorca as he stood with his arm outstretched. Then she took a couple of steps to his side. Her eyes roamed up and down. She noticed his ear but said nothing. She was taking his measure.

Grenier finally nodded at the envelope. “What is that?” she asked.

“A letter from a mutual friend.”

“I have so many friends. Which one is also yours?”

“Langston Bennett of South Carolina.”

Her eyebrows arched on hearing the name. She shifted her gaze from Mazorca to the envelope. “Langston Bennett is a great man,” she said. “I will read the letter.”

Grenier took the envelope and studied it. The flap was sealed shut. She opened the drawer to a small table and pulled out a letter knife. As she thrust it in a hole at one end of the envelope, she gave Mazorca a quick look. “Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to where her visitor had been sitting. Then she ripped open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and started reading. Mazorca already knew what it said. Before leaving Charleston he had steamed open the envelope, read the undated contents, and then resealed it.

My dear Violet,

Some weeks ago I wrote to you about an important project, whose nature we need not mention here. The man bearing this letter will execute our plans. He is a stranger to Washington and may benefit from your intimate knowledge of it. Please provide him with whatever assistance he seeks, in the interest of our vital cause.

Yours most affectionately,

Langston

Below the signature, the bottom of the letter was sheared off. Grenier set it down and left the room. Mazorca heard her open and shut a drawer. She came back with a small piece of paper in her hand. One of its edges was ripped. She held it beside the letter from Bennett. They matched perfectly. Grenier smiled and placed both pieces of the letter into the envelope.

“What is your name?” she asked with disarming sincerity.

“I’m called Mazorca,” he said.

“It is a strange name. A little mysterious, too.”

“No more strange and mysterious than a woman who reads books on infantry tactics and fortifications.”

“They are in the front windows of all the bookstores.”

“And ladies are buying them?”

“Last year I couldn’t tell the difference between a flanking maneuver and a casement carriage. Now I’m able to carry on whole conversations with federal officers about their work. I’m able to learn things which I may then pass along to others who find such information useful.”

“You sound like a spy.”

For the first time since entering, Grenier smiled. It brought warmth to her features. “We all have our secrets,” she said, circling around the tete-a-tete and sitting in the seat opposite Mazorca, even though the parlor contained several chairs.

“Perhaps, like your name, it is something we best leave a bit mysterious. I am Violet Grenier, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mazorca.”

“Likewise. But I’m curious about something. An hour ago, two of you left this house, but only one of you returned.”

“You’ve been watching me?” She sounded more flattered than offended. “That was Polly, who helps out around here. She has several hours off. I had thought that I would be alone in the house. Then you turned up.”

She leaned toward Mazorca and touched his arm gently. Just by watching her look at him, Mazorca understood what Bennett meant when he called Grenier the most persuasive woman in Washington.

“Your ear is terribly scarred,” she said. “What happened?”

“It’s an old injury, acquired far from here during a disagreement.”

“Something tells me that your adversary lost more than a piece of skin.”

“He did not fare well.”

Grenier smiled. “I have entertained presidents in this very spot,” she whispered.

“What about the current one?”

She pulled away from him, as if the mere thought of Lincoln was physically repulsive. “No. Never. He is the Mammon of Unrighteousness. I believe this is a subject upon which Langston Bennett and I are in complete agreement.”

“That would seem to be the case.”

“And that is why I’m willing to help you,” she said, drawing near again.

“I would appreciate it if you simply told me what you know about Lincoln and his circle.”

“The abolitionists are pathetic. Because of them I cannot now look upon the Stars and Stripes and see anything but a symbol of murder, plunder, oppression, and shame.”

Her face had twisted into a scowl, but the expression vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. “I certainly understand the importance of consorting with them,” she continued. “I’m friendly with some-quite friendly, as a matter of fact. I receive detailed reports on cabinet meetings, troop movements, and the like. I’m often aware of what the president intends to do, and I know it before Congress or the newspapers do. It requires me to spend a considerable amount of time in the company of people whose opinions I find repellent. Yet it is all in the service of a cause greater than us. Wouldn’t you agree, Mazorca?”

“It will serve your purposes and mine if you can share some of what you know with me, Mrs. Grenier.”

She smiled sweetly and touched his arm again. “Please, call me Violet.”

“What can you tell me about the president, Violet?”

“I will try to be objective,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“I have despised him ever since he came to prominence in those debates with Stephen Douglas, when they were campaigning for the Senate three years ago. He is a buffoon from the backwoods of the far frontier. Much of Washington and even many of his supposed friends consider him a coward-first for the way he sneaked into the city in the middle of the night before his inauguration, and then for taking the oath of office under armed guard. There are soldiers everywhere nowadays. We’re used to seeing them in Washington, of course, but today they have a greater presence than ever before. The president wants more of them still. Some of my friends say he is worried about an invasion from Virginia and Maryland. He should be, considering how his policies are driving half the states to secession. By preparing for war, however, he makes it impossible for people to believe he is a man of peace. I think he wants to assemble an abolitionist army and intends to rule the Southern states with an iron fist.”

“How does he spend his time?”

“Mostly in the mansion. He has long lines of visitors seeking favors. There are cabinet meetings. You may have noticed that he has turned the place into a military camp, with those vile men from the West arriving just the other day.”

“You mean Jim Lane’s men?”

“Yes, they’re the ones-and they’re more evidence that Lincoln is yellow. If he really were a man of the people, why would he place so many soldiers between himself and the public?”

“Does he ever go out in public?”

“Not often. I actually haven’t seen much of him.”

“When he’s out, does he have guards?”

“A few. He is less secure outside the White House than in it. He’s often in a crowd, though. The man may never be alone. Yet there are fewer soldiers around him when he leaves the grounds of the mansion than when he stays inside its walls. I’m told that some of the officers on General Scott’s staff are not pleased by this state of affairs. They believe the president is vulnerable in these moments. They are so worried about his life they would rather lock Lincoln in a bank vault than so much as let him peep out a window. I have this on exceedingly good authority.”

“What does General Scott think?”

“General Scott!” she chuckled. “Have you seen him? He is the fattest man in the country. He’s a traitor too. The other sons of Virginia are rallying to defend their homes, like Robert E. Lee. But fat Scott won’t have anything to do with it. That would probably require him to get on a horse and ride south-but there’s no horse that could support his bulk.”

She laughed again and then turned serious. “Yet this is not what you asked me. I know Scott well-he has called on me here-and I know he is a spent man. His finest days are far behind him. He will do what Lincoln tells him to do, perhaps offer a few ideas, and little more. He certainly won’t challenge any of his orders, as much as a few of the younger officers on his staff might like him to. There is a Colonel Rook who presses him to be more aggressive.”

“Do you know Rook?”

“Rook is an enigma to me. Most of the officers in Washington always worry about their prospects. They pass up no opportunity to mingle with the cabinet and Congress. They would like to win favors as much as battles. It is a wonder they find any time at all to think about war and prepare for it. Yet Rook is not like them. He avoids society. I do not predict that his career will flourish.”

“I’m less concerned about where he is in the future than what he’s doing now.”

“Of course. He may be a man to watch-and to beware. Scott put him in charge of the president’s security, so it is Rook who was responsible for that extravagant military display at the inauguration. It is hard to believe, but he apparently thinks that Lincoln is under protected.”

Grenier rose from the couch. “But enough about Rook. There is something I would like you to have, Mazorca,” she said. She walked into the other parlor and returned with a key in her hand. “This was given to me by a friend who has left the city. It is to a home located at 1745 N Street. I am to look in on it occasionally while he is gone. He has not yet decided whether to sell or rent, though it is probably impossible to do either right now. You may use it as a safe house. Do not go there unless you must-it would appear odd if you were seen to be coming and going all the time-but also know it is there for you in a time of need.”

She returned to her seat on the tete-a-tete and handed Mazorca the key. “I’m here for you too,” she said in a low voice. “Let me know if there is anything you need.” She leaned across the couch and kissed Mazorca lightly on the lips. “I mean anything.”

A moment later, she led him upstairs.

Joe and Portia had never felt so tired. Two nights had passed since leaving the Bennett plantation. The physical effort was exhausting, and the nerve-wracking knowledge of what lay in store for them if they were caught only made matters worse.

Portia even found their general direction unsettling: all her life she had understood the promise of freedom lay to the north. In the night sky, she looked for the Big Dipper-or the Drinking Gourd, as she knew it-and spotted the two stars in that constellation that pointed toward the North Star. When she gazed up at the clear sky that first night, though, she realized she was heading the opposite way. This was intentional, of course: their destination was Charleston, which lay to the south. It just seemed unnatural.

She might have banished the thought from her mind if she and Joe had avoided simple blunders and made more progress. On their first night, however, a wrong turn had cost them a substantial amount of travel time. Neither Portia nor Joe was sure how far they had gone in those first hours, but they knew it was not far enough. At daybreak they retreated to the edge of an isolated meadow and ate most of their food. They tried to sleep, but it was a fitful effort for both of them. Their horses had wandered off. They could not take the risk of searching for them, so they would have to finish their journey on foot.

After the second night, the dim light of dawn had found them near a large plantation, where they observed a few field hands beginning their chores. Portia and Joe were not sure whether any of these slaves had spotted them, but they knew for certain that they had to find a new hideout for the day. A stand of trees rose about half a mile from the plantation, and they hustled into it. Leaves and branches concealed them from view.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” asked Portia.

“Safer than if we were still on that road,” replied Joe. “As soon as a white person sees us out there, we’re done.”

They were too anxious from their journey to sleep right away. They fed themselves from the small supplies of food that remained and cleared an area for lying down. This chore was just about finished when a dry branch cracked nearby. They looked toward the noise: a slave boy was coming toward them from the general direction of the plantation. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old.

Joe pulled out his knife and went right for him. The big man was swift for his size. He raced forward, grabbed the boy by his collar, and threw him to the ground.

“Who’re you?” he demanded, holding his knife in front of the boy’s face.

The boy shook with fear. “Jeremiah,” he said in a quivering voice. “My name’s Jeremiah.”

Joe patted Jeremiah’s clothes to see if the boy carried weapons. There were none.

“Where you from, Jeremiah?”

“I live on the Stark plantation.”

“Oh no!” said Portia.

Joe looked at her. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve heard of it before. We wanted to be at least this far after the first night.”

Joe returned his attention to the slave lying on his back. “How far to Charleston?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t mess with me, boy,” said Joe, flashing the blade.

“I don’t know. I ain’t never been there.”

“What should I do with him, Portia?”

“Don’t say our names!” she scolded.

“Sorry.”

“Let him up,” she said.

Joe took a step back and signaled for Jeremiah to sit on a log.

“What’re you doin’ here?” she asked.

“Just lookin’ around.”

“What are you lookin’ for?”

“I saw you comin’ down the road this mornin’.”

“So?”

“You seemed real nervous, the way you kept lookin’ at Mr. Stark’s house.”

Portia forced a laugh. “And what makes you think we been nervous?”

Jeremiah did not answer immediately. Then he asked, “You’re runaways, ain’t you?”

“No, we ain’t!”

“You got passes?”

“Yeah.”

“Lemme see.”

“No.”

“I think you’re runaways, and I wanna help you.”

“You’d get yourself in big trouble for somethin’ like that.”

“Nobody knows I’m here.”

“Were you the only one who saw us?”

“I don’t know. I think so. Lemme show you a better hidin’ spot than this.”

Joe looked at Portia. She shrugged. “I say let’s go,” she said.

“OK,” agreed Joe, who then turned to Jeremiah. “But if you try anything funny, boy, I’m gonna carve you up with this knife.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jeremiah. “Just follow me.”

A smooth-running creek ran about two hundred feet from where they started. It was so quiet Portia and Joe had not even known it was there. They paused for a moment to drink.

“We’re going to walk in the water,” said Jeremiah when they were done. “It will confuse the dogs.”

Portia and Joe had not mentioned dogs to each other since leaving the Bennett plantation, but the topic was not far from their minds. Slave catchers always worked with dogs-fierce beasts the size of wolves. They were trained with meat. They would kill their quarry unless they were called off. Slaves feared the dogs far more than they feared the slave catchers. When a chase was coming to an end, it was common for runaways to consider the slave catchers not as their doom but as their salvation. They would do almost anything to keep from being mauled by the dogs.

As they waded down the knee-deep creek, Portia knew they were covering their scent. She also understood the dogs were smart enough to recognize this trick and patient enough to follow along both sides of a stream for long distances in order to pick up the smell again.

After a while, their creek ran into a slightly bigger one. Jeremiah turned into it and started heading upstream. “If the dogs come this way, they’ll go downstream first,” he said.

“How do you know your way around here?” asked Portia.

“This is where my brothers and I come lyin’ out,” he said.

“We only do it for a couple of days at a time. But we ain’t been caught yet.”

“Ain’t you whipped for that?”

“Not enough to stop us from doin’ it again.”

They walked upstream for a few minutes. Suddenly Jeremiah stopped. There was a high bank on one side of the creek. “There’s a hollow behind there,” he said, pointing.

“Anybody lookin’ for you is gonna be comin’ from the stream or the main road.” He indicated the direction of the road, on the side of the stream opposite the bank. “You’ll see ’em before they see you-and you’ll hear ’em before that.”

“This is kind of you,” said Portia. “Have you helped others like this before?”

“Yes.”

“They been caught?” asked Joe.

“I’m two for five,” said the boy, with a big smile. “Five times I’ve helped, and two times they’ve gotten away from here without being found out.”

“That makes you more of a failure than a success,” said Joe.

“It’s not always my fault,” protested Jeremiah. “One time the people I helped stayed here at night and they were dumb enough to light a fire. They got caught.”

“The runaways that weren’t caught-what made them different?” asked Portia.

“They were smart.”

“How were they smart?”

“They traveled alone.”

Portia looked at Joe.

“That’s one reason I want you to succeed,” said Jeremiah, oblivious to the effect of his words. “I want you to be the first group I’ve helped get through.”

“We’ll try not to let you down,” said Portia.

“You hungry?”

“As a matter of fact, we are.”

“Then I’ll go now and bring some food. I may be an hour or two, but I’ll be back.” Jeremiah splashed into the stream, crossed it, and then ran into the trees.

“You’re right about one thing: if we can’t trust him, we’re done,” said Joe. “It just seems to me there was one way of makin’ sure he doesn’t tell anybody about us.”

“Joe!” said Portia. She wanted to think they had found a friend.

“Our lives are at stake, Portia.”

She frowned. “I think we can trust him-or else why would he have led us here?”

“I hope you’re right.”

Joe picked up a skipping stone and whisked it into the stream. It bounced three times and sank. He tossed a few more without better results. Then he and Portia decided to rest. They would need to save their energy. They would leave again at dark, whether or not Jeremiah returned.

As he approached Lafayette Park, Springfield yawned. He wanted a cup of coffee. Across the park, about a city block away, was Grenier’s home on Sixteenth Street. When it came into view, he did not expect to see anything. To his surprise, the door opened and a man stepped out.

Springfield looked away quickly. He was in uniform for a change and did not want to be seen staring, even from a distance. He slowed his pace and strained to keep the man in his peripheral vision. Was it one of the fellows from yesterday? Springfield hoped so, if for no other reason than it would provide him with new information for Rook.

Grenier’s visitor walked in the same direction as Springfield, but on H Street, which bounded the park on its north side. As the man reached the edge of the park, where it touched Vermont Avenue, Springfield shifted into pursuit. He remained about half a block behind the man, who stayed on H Street as he passed Fifteenth Street, Fourteenth, Thirteenth, and kept going.

Seeing the man only from behind, Springfield could not get a good view of him-except to become certain that he was not one of those who had visited Grenier a day earlier. He was sandy haired and clean shaven. To get a better view, Springfield walked to catch up and soon was about twenty feet behind the man. He crossed Twelfth Street, Eleventh, and Tenth at a steady pace. At Eighth Street, he turned his head, and Springfield saw the man’s face in profile. He did not recognize it, but he knew he would not forget it: the man’s right ear was half missing.

Grenier’s visitor kept moving, now across Seventh Street. Before arriving at Sixth Street, however, he slowed down and entered a building on his right. Springfield had dropped back from his closest approach and could not tell what it was. He lingered at the corner of Seventh and H Street, waiting to see if the man would come out again. After about five minutes, Springfield decided to proceed down H Street. He made certain to note the building in question. It was a boardinghouse, addressed 604 H Street.

At Sixth Street, Springfield turned to the right and took about a dozen steps before stopping. The boardinghouse was around the corner and out of sight. He thought about what to do next. Rook had wanted to meet near Brown’s, but should he stick around, trying to learn more about Grenier’s guest?

It occurred to him that the only reason this new visitor to the Grenier residence intrigued him was the fact that yesterday she had received different visitors whom Rook had regarded as potentially significant. Was there any connection between the two? He had no basis for thinking so.

He walked south on Sixth Street, in the direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. On the way, Springfield thought about coffee.

It was late afternoon when the sound of Jeremiah wading through the stream woke Portia and Joe. He arrived with a pot of stew in a satchel. He sat as they ate, and then he cleaned the pot in the stream.

“I’ve got one more thing for you,” he said. “Grave dust.”

Portia and Joe knew immediately what he was talking about. Some slaves believed that wiping feet with cemetery soil-grave dust-removed all traces of scent and made it impossible for dogs or trackers to continue a search. The runaways watched Jeremiah pull a bag from the satchel. It was full of dry, gray dirt.

Joe looked at Portia. “Do you believe in this?”

“One time I asked my grandfather if ghosts were real.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Don’t pretend that such things can’t be.’”

Portia took a handful of grave dust and wiped it on her feet and legs. She smiled at Joe, who was not sure whether she was doing this for their benefit or Jeremiah’s. The boy certainly seemed to view the grave dust with great seriousness. He had saved it for last-after leading them to the hideout, after giving them food. It was his parting gift. Joe thought that perhaps he should take some just as a courtesy.

Suddenly in the distance, the three slaves heard a sound that made them shiver: barking.

“Well, I’m ready to become a believer,” said Joe, reaching for the bag of grave dust. “We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

When Rook wanted to concentrate on a difficult problem, he liked to go for a stroll-not to a quiet place, but a noisy one. For whatever reason, the commotion of a crowd encouraged fresh thinking. And so he found himself at Center Market, the busiest commercial hub in the city. It was a sprawling structure that took up two entire blocks on the south side of Pennsylvania Avenue between Seventh and Ninth streets. Farmers and fishermen from across the region descended on it every morning before sunrise to sell their wares. Rook walked beside dozens of wagon stands outside the building, only half aware of the salesmen shouting their prices and the customers who haggled with them.

It did not hurt that Center Market was near Brown’s Hotel-the site of the puzzle that had vexed him since the previous afternoon, and where Springfield and Clark were monitoring Davis and Stephens. Not by rail, river, or road. What could it possibly mean?

Rook wandered down the market’s crowded aisles, trying to ignore the overpowering stench of fish that came from the stalls piled high with bass and shad from the Potomac. Sellers stocked all kinds of food-venison, ducks, turkeys, oysters, and lots of vegetables-but the smell of fish drifted through the whole building.

He wondered whether he was right to defy Scott’s orders. In a strict military sense, of course, he was in the wrong-it was always wrong to disobey a direct order from a superior officer. Yet Rook was convinced that Scott’s judgment was mistaken. It bordered on dereliction of duty. The old general simply did not take the president’s protection as seriously as he should. Rook was certain Davis and Stephens were up to something. He could not prove it in a court of law or to the satisfaction of Scott, but he had no doubt.

Reaching the end of a row of wagon stands, Rook found himself at Seventh Street-and with a clear view of Brown’s Hotel. A horse-drawn omnibus waited outside the hotel as it took on several passengers. This was a popular form of transportation up and down the Avenue, between Capitol Hill and Georgetown. When the horse started pulling, Rook made a sharp right-hand turn into Center Market itself, where nobody on the street would be able to spot him.

Not by rail, river, or road. Didn’t Davis mention a “shipment”? He might have used a different word, such as “load” or “delivery” or “consignment.” But he said shipment. That would suggest a cargo arriving on a ship, which meant over water, which meant by river. Yet Davis seemed to rule out that possibility. Rook told himself not to get snared in semantic games. Shipments might mean anything, even goods transported by train. He started to wonder. Maybe Davis and Stephens were playing games with him. Perhaps Scott was right, and it was all just a waste of time.

At the rear of the market, where a number of the seafood sellers kept their stalls, Rook found himself watching an old man train a boy in the art of fish cleaning-chopping off the head and fins, removing the guts, scraping the scales. It reminded him of a similar lesson his grandfather had taught him many years earlier. He watched with amusement as the boy struggled to perform the sloppy chore his employer could complete in a matter of seconds.

Not by rail, river, or road. The riddle forced its way back into his thoughts. Was there a way the shipment could arrive by land but not by road? Suddenly, a shout caught his attention.

“Colonel!”

Rook saw Springfield trotting toward him from the front of the building.

“What’s the news, Sergeant?”

“Davis and Stephens boarded an omnibus a few minutes ago. Corporal Clark got on with them.”

“Do we know where they’re going?”

“They were headed toward Georgetown.”

“I don’t suppose you were able to communicate with Clark.”

“Actually, I was. He nodded to me, very faintly-and he did not give the signal that he needed anybody to trail behind. I assume he’s just going to follow them around. We’ll get a report when he returns.”

“If we had more men assigned to this operation, we would be able to send a whole team after them.”

“At least one man is better than none.”

“True. Perhaps Clark will come back with more information. I just can’t get Davis and Stephens out of my mind. They are an enigma.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“This business about rails, rivers, and roads confounds me. How can something possibly arrive here if it doesn’t come by rail, river, or road?”

“It’s quite a riddle, sir. In a lot of other cities, it wouldn’t be much of a problem. But here it’s a stumper.”

Rook arched his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I was thinking about this. Most of the cities on the East Coast aren’t on rivers, or at least not ones that link them to the rest of the world. They’re beside harbors or bays or other bodies of water. Boats come and go without ever touching rivers. Give me that same riddle in New York or Baltimore and the answer is easy-so easy it isn’t even a riddle.”

“That had not occurred to me,” said Rook. “Of course, it’s academic.”

“Right. In this city, a boat must come up the river to get here.”

Something in that sentence caught Rook’s ear. He repeated it in his mind: A boat has to come up the river to get here. “The same thing is not true in some other cities,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Take a place like New York City,” offered Rook. “You’re right that most of its water traffic comes from the harbor. Not all of it, though. Some actually comes down the Hudson River. So lots of boats must reach that city by river-they come not from the ocean, but the interior of the country.”

“I suppose that’s correct.”

“But it’s academic too. The Potomac is not navigable much past Georgetown. Even if it were, it would still be a river-and we would be no nearer to solving this riddle.”

Their conversation sputtered to a halt. They looked at the two fish cleaners, the old teacher and his young student. They had just created a stack of filets. A mound of leftover fish parts sat in front of them.

“Customers don’t want to see that,” said the man, pointing to the heap of heads and guts. “We need to get it out of sight.” He pushed the mess into a bucket with his knife. “This is full,” he said, grabbing the bucket’s handle and giving it to the boy.

“Carry it around back.”

The youngster took the bucket and left the stall. He passed in front of Rook and Springfield and walked through an open door. Sunlight fell on his head. He stopped in plain sight of the two soldiers, lifted the bucket, and dumped its contents, which splashed beneath his feet. Then the boy turned around and came back in, swinging his empty bucket.

“Do you have the same thought as me?” asked Rook.

Now it was Springfield who arched his eyebrows.

“Let’s go!”

The dogs were getting closer.

Portia and Joe splashed down the stream, running with the current. They moved as quickly as they could. “Don’t let your feet touch the bank on either side,” warned Portia. The temptation to get out was strong. The water sucked at their heels with each step, making their run twice as strenuous as it would be on dry land. Yet the barking propelled them forward. Each yap was like the prick of a spur.

Jeremiah was still with them, but they knew he would not be for long. “Get in the water,” he had yelled when they first heard the dogs. Portia had lost all track of time. Had their run started five minutes ago-or half an hour ago? She wasn’t sure and didn’t care. All she wanted was to get away from the dogs. The little brook seemed their single hope-the only thing that might cover their scent and keep them free just a little bit longer.

They could not tell how much ground lay between them and their pursuers. The trees and rocks played tricks with the sound and made it impossible to know. For a time, Portia had thought they might actually get away. The barking remained faint. Then it erupted. Then it stopped completely. For a while they heard nothing. The slaves even stopped racing at one point to listen, and the only sound they heard came from the trickling water of the creek. Portia’s hopes rose, only to crash minutes later when the barking started again-and grew steadily louder. “They must’ve paused at our hideout,” panted Joe.

When they reached a small meadow perhaps half a mile later, Jeremiah halted them. “This is where we gotta split up,” he said. “You gotta go your way, and I gotta go mine. There’s nothin’ more I can do for you.”

“You gotta promise not to say nothing about us,” said Portia.

“I ain’t gonna do that. If I did, everybody would know I helped you. I’m gonna say that I ain’t never seen you.”

“OK, and we won’t say nothin’ about you if we’re caught.”

“Here’s what you gotta do: keep runnin’ down the stream. After a while, get out and rush away as fast as you can. Don’t leave no footprints in the mud. If we’re lucky, the dogs can’t smell us now-they’re runnin’ along the banks trying to pick up a trail they’ve lost. You gotta hope they miss you and keep on going. Then you can get back on the road tonight.”

Somewhere behind them, the barking continued.

Jeremiah looked over his shoulder. “No more time for talk,” he said. “Good-bye.” He leaped out of the water onto a log. He walked its length away from the creek and took a big jump into the woods. Then he was gone. Portia looked intently but could see no physical evidence of Jeremiah having left the creek.

“I guess that’s how it’s done,” said Joe.

The two slaves resumed their flight. For a while, the dogs did not seem to gain on them. Then the barking became noticeably louder. Suddenly Portia stopped. Joe nearly collided into her.

“We gotta do something,” she gasped.

“They’re gonna be at least a few minutes behind us. We should keep runnin’. No time for restin’.”

“If we keep runnin’, they’re gonna catch us. We gotta get away from the river. We gotta make a move.”

Joe saw Portia looking at a tree that had fallen into the streambed. Once it had stood tall, and now it lay long. The trunk had cracked near its base, but somehow the tree remained alive. Several young branches reached upward.

“OK, we’ll do it here,” said Joe. “Jeremiah left on a log. That’s what we’ll do.”

Portia put a foot on the tree and was about to lift herself up when Joe stopped her.

“There’s one thing I gotta ask you, and I’m only gonna do it once,” he said. “Those dogs are bad news if they’re set loose. I don’t wanna see you hurt by one of them. We can still give ourselves up and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“No way, Joe. They’re gonna have to catch us.”

“All right then,” he said, helping her onto the trunk.

A moment later, they were both out of the water and darting through the woods.

Rook and Springfield sprinted out of Center Market and to the Winder Building. Ten blocks later, they arrived short of breath. “I hope this is worth it,” huffed Rook as they waited for a private to retrieve their horses. “If their shipment isn’t coming by rail, river, or road, then it must be coming by that canal.”

“The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal.”

“That’s right. Washington gets almost all of its coal from barges on the C amp;O, plus lots of grain and lumber.”

“What if Davis and Stephens are just picking up a few sacks of coal?” asked Springfield.

“I can’t believe that’s what they’re doing. It must be something else. Maybe they have a shipment of guns coming in. The canal goes right by Harper’s Ferry and the federal armory there.”

“Didn’t I hear something about Harper’s Ferry?”

“Virginia troops seized control of it yesterday. Davis and Stephens would have needed some kind of collaborator up there a couple of days before that, assuming they are in fact carrying weapons down from Harper’s Ferry.”

“It would certainly explain why they’re being so secretive. Maybe they’re trying to arm rebels in the city, thinking they can pitch in if Virginia marches on Washington next.”

The private emerged from the rear of the building, leading both horses over to Rook and Springfield.

“The only thing it doesn’t explain is their ‘scouting mission’ of the Capitol,” said Rook as he and Springfield mounted. “If Davis and Stephens were trying to arm an underground militia, why would they roam around the Capitol and ask about where to make food deliveries?”

“They could be planning an assault and wanted to become familiar with the building’s layout and see where the soldiers were staying. They might have been counting soldiers too. The questions about food may have been their excuse for being there.”

“I think there’s more to it. I just don’t know what.”

Borne by their horses, they started north on Seventeenth Street, turned left on the Avenue, and took it to M Street. There they crossed the bridge over Rock Creek. Georgetown was on the other side. The busy thoroughfare of Bridge Street lay before them. As they passed an omnibus heading in the opposite direction, Rook slowed his horse and signaled Springfield to do the same.

“Let’s not call attention to ourselves,” said the colonel, speaking over the sound of hooves as they clattered against the hard surface of the bridge. “How far do you figure we’re behind them?”

“Fifteen minutes or so.”

The two soldiers rode a couple of blocks into Georgetown, dismounted, and tied their mounts to a post beside a store. Then they walked south on one of the streets intersecting Bridge. In a minute, they reached the end of the C amp;O Canal, the terminal point of a commercial waterway that began almost two hundred miles upstream.

At least a dozen wooden boats rested there, all of them remarkably similar in appearance. They were long, low, and narrow-more barge than boat. They did not move by mast or paddle but by mules that pulled on ropes from a towpath. At the stern of each boat was a rudder and small cabin, with steps leading down to a galley. On the opposite end, a shed housed the off-duty mules. In the middle, flat boards covered the hatch and took up most of the length of the boat.

Rook and Springfield studied the canal boats from the side of a building where they had a full view of the area but remained mostly out of sight. They saw every degree of activity, from boats where eight or nine men hurried to unload a cargo to a few that appeared empty. On one boat, children wore chain tethers as they pranced on top of the hatch covers. On another, a woman removed laundry pinned to a line stretching from one end of the boat to the other.

“There’s one of them,” said Rook. “It’s Stephens.”

About a hundred feet away, the wiry little man paced back and forth. He could not have been more than an inch or two above five feet tall. In the cabin of the boat behind him, Davis waved his arms and yelled something, as if he were in a bitter argument. Rook could hear his voice but was not able to make out the words except to sense they were full of anger. There were two other men in the cabin, but neither of them seemed to be the target of Davis’s fury.

“I see Davis and two other men-they could be Mallory and Toombs, the men who left the other day,” said Rook, pointing to the boat. He spoke in a low voice, even though there was no chance he could be overheard. “I wonder where Corporal Clark is.”

Suddenly Davis broke off his tirade. He took a step to the left and Rook had his answer: Clark was sitting down, his face blank. Davis said something and the two others grabbed Clark by the arms, stood him up, and spun him around. Rook thought he saw them bind Clark’s wrists behind his back just before they shoved him down a set of steps leading into the galley.

When Clark disappeared, the two soldiers pulled out of view entirely.

“They’ve got Clark below the cabin, and it looks like he’s a captive,” said Rook. “Davis, Mallory, and Toombs are still on the barge, and Stephens is on lookout right beside it.”

“If there are others, they’re in the galley.”

“That could be, but there can’t be much room down there.”

“Did you see the cargo?”

“No. Whatever it is, it’s in the hatch and not visible.”

Springfield moved to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. When he came back, he saw Rook examining a pistol. It was a Colt Army Model 1860 revolver, a .44-caliber gun with an octagonal barrel nearly eight inches long. Rook opened the chamber to make sure it was fully loaded. All six bullets were there. Satisfied, he put the pistol back in his belt. He looked at Springfield and gestured to the sergeant’s holster. “You may want to make sure everything’s in order,” said the colonel. “I want to end this right now.”

“It’s two against four-maybe more,” said Springfield.

“Shouldn’t we get some help?”

It was a smart question. Yet involving more men would mean involving Scott. Rook knew that would be a mistake. “I’m not sure we have time to call for assistance,” he said. “Clark’s in there and we have to help him. They may have taken him below for something worse than an interrogation.”

“Very well.”

“Give me five minutes, then walk up to Stephens,” said Rook. “Engage in small talk. I’m going to circle around and try to get on that boat. Don’t let Stephens see me, and be ready for action.”

Rook went up the block toward Bridge Street and worked his way back to the canal from another alleyway. He looked at the boat holding Clark, this time from the opposite direction, where he had a better view of its stern. Davis leaned on the rudder and glared into the galley but did not move. Stephens continued to stand alongside the boat. Between Rook and these two men was another boat, and it did not appear to have anybody on board.

A team of mules sauntered by, and Rook fell behind them. He walked in a crouch toward the deserted boat. When he was right next to it, he hopped on board. An empty mule shed at the other end of the boat kept him from seeing Davis, but had a clear view of Stephens. The little man did not appear to have noticed him. His eyes instead were locked on Springfield, who now strolled toward the Southerner from the other way.

“Hello?” A voice from the galley startled Rook. The colonel reached for his gun as he heard a foot hit the steps leading upward. “Weaver? Is that you?”

A black-haired man in a white shirt and brown trousers came up from the galley. “Hello?” he said again. Suddenly he stopped, seeing Rook squatted down and pointing a pistol at him. The man raised his hands above his head, and Rook put a finger to his lips. The man froze in place, but his eyes shifted to his right and down. Rook followed the man’s gaze to a rifle leaning against the wall of the boat’s cabin. Rook knew he had to act quickly.

“Are you for Union?” whispered Rook.

The man nodded. Rook weighed his options. He assumed the man was from western Maryland because that was where so many of the canal workers came from. The C amp;O Canal cut right through their territory. The people of western Maryland generally were unionists, and many of them supported the Lincoln administration even though they lived in a slave state.

“Then in the name of the Union, either get back down in the galley or take your rifle and come with me,” said Rook, rising to a full stand. He was glad to be in uniform-he thought it would help win the man’s confidence.

The man thought for a few seconds and then picked up his gun. “My name is Higginson,” he said, holding out his hand. Rook grasped it and introduced himself.

“We have a potentially dangerous situation here,” he said.

“A man’s life may be at stake.”

“Just tell me what to do,” said Higginson.

“Is there anybody else on board?”

“No. We unloaded this morning, and everybody’s gone for the afternoon.”

“Very well. Then it’s you and me. I’m hoping that we won’t need to fire these guns, but I’m certain we’ll have to show them.”

A minute later, they scrambled the length of the boat, each in an awkward hunch. Reaching the mule shed, they remained in a stoop and paused. Rook could hear Springfield talking to Stephens.

“…so as I was saying, I’ve always been fascinated by how the locks work on the canal. It’s really ingenious how you fellows get up, down, and around the rapids and falls.”

Then Rook heard another voice, coming from the cabin. “Is there a problem here, Officer?”

It was Davis. Rook could not see him, but he pictured the scene: Stephens and Springfield on the edge of the canal, Davis looking at them, and two others below with Clark. With the collaborators separated and distracted, now was a good time to strike, he thought.

Rook drew his gun and looked at Higginson. “Ready?” he asked in a whisper.

Higginson gripped his rifle. He looked nervous but nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Both men hopped onto the roof of the mule shed. Rook now had a plain view of Davis. There was a gap of about seven or eight feet between the end of Higginson’s barge and the start of Davis’s. Rook took a few steps and hurtled himself across, crashing into Davis. The big man slammed into the floor of the cabin. He took a bad blow to the head. Rook fell down too, but he regained his balance quickly and stuck his gun in Davis’s face. The commotion caused Stephens to turn around, which forced his attention away from Springfield just as the sergeant shoved him into the canal. Higginson remained standing on the mule shed of his boat, with his gun trained on the steps leading into the galley.

As Stephens thrashed around in the water-“I can’t swim!” he hollered-Springfield boarded the boat. Rook pointed to Davis. “Guard him,” he ordered. Then the colonel ran to the galley steps. Mallory was starting to climb them from below, but Rook kicked him in the face, knocking him backward.

The colonel scurried into the galley. It was small and dark, but he saw Clark sitting in a corner with Toombs hovering over him. “Hands up,” shouted Rook, pointing his gun. The man obeyed. The whole encounter, starting with Rook leaping onto the boat, had lasted about fifteen seconds.

“The dogs have found something,” said Tate, holding the end of a long leash.

“I think we’re getting close,” said Hughes.

The overseer knew the fugitives were nearby-the marks in the mud along the riverbank about half a mile back, where Portia and Joe apparently had rested, were fresh. The dogs had become ecstatic when they stumbled on that spot too. But then they fell silent and prowled around for a scent that suddenly had gone dead.

Tate suspected that the dogs’ barking had warned the runaways, who then raced into the creek. There was no way to tell whether they had gone upstream or downstream, though. Downstream seemed the likelier path, because upstream led to the plantation he and Hughes had seen from the road. So they set off downstream, leaving behind their own horses, which were too big to be of much use in the forest. Ahead of them on leashes, a dog raced along each side of the creek checking for the right smell.

One of the hounds stopped at a log beside the stream and yapped with excitement. The other splattered across the water to join it. Both sniffed at the fallen tree with great care, pacing up and down its length several times.

To Tate, the dogs appeared hesitant. If the scent of a slave led out of the stream, they would take it. If it did not, then they would continue following the flow of the water in the hope of picking it up soon. Yet they appeared torn between these two choices.

“Why do they seem so confused?” asked Hughes as the dogs continued investigating the log.

“I don’t know,” said Tate. “If these were younger dogs, I’d say a fox was distracting them. But these two are experienced. They’re onto something, and they don’t know what to make of it.”

One dog finally moved away from the log and into the woods. It had only gone about ten feet, however, when it turned around and barked. Its companion did not follow. Instead, it jogged back to the bank of the stream, pointed its snout in the direction they had been traveling, and barked a reply.

“They’re having a disagreement,” said Tate. “One wants to go into the trees and the other wants to stay with the stream.”

“Then it’s obvious what has happened,” said Hughes. “The slaves have split up. They must have panicked. I suggest we split up as well. You go into the woods because that’s where your dog wants to go, and I’ll follow the creek. We’ll have them soon!”

“I’m not so sure. It might make more sense to stay together-to catch one, and then the other.”

“Nonsense,” said Hughes. “It could take a couple of hours to track down just one of them. By then we would have allowed the gap between us and the other runaway to widen. I want to get them both, Tate. This is not a suggestion-it’s an order.”

Tate scowled at that comment. He did not care for orders coming from someone other than Bennett, though he understood Hughes to be Bennett’s man on this chase. Why had Bennett insisted that Hughes join him on this jaunt? He had spent the early part of their pursuit wishing one of the other overseers was with him instead.

“Very well,” Tate said at last, and he crashed into the trees.

Hughes watched him go. The man was good, he had to admit, even if there was a whiff of insubordination about him. Splitting up was the right thing to do, though. Capturing just one of the slaves rather than both was not necessarily half a success-it might very well be a total failure. What he needed was that picture. Only one of them could have it. Or perhaps each of them carried a copy. Whatever the case, Hughes knew he had to find both Portia and Joe. There was no other way to be sure an image of Mazorca did not fall into the wrong hands.

He continued down the stream, letting his dog dart from side to side. The animal had picked up the pace a bit. It sensed that success was at hand, and so did Hughes.

About twenty minutes after leaving Tate, Hughes and his dog came upon another big tree that had fallen into the creek. It lay horizontal but was not dead. Branches reached upward for the sun.

The animal let out a yelp and looked back at Hughes. It seemed eager to rush into the woods. When Hughes did not respond immediately, the dog issued a torrent of barks. “So you think it’s time, do you, boy?” said Hughes, unhooking the long leash. The dog did not budge, but Hughes could see the excitement in its eyes. He smiled. “Get ’em!” he snapped, and the dog zipped into the trees.

Hughes examined the young branches on the fallen tree and noticed that one of them had cracked near its base. Beneath the bark, the wood was pale yellow. This was a fresh wound. Somebody had stepped on the tree.

Hughes could not match the dog’s speed, but he followed its barking. He half expected Portia or Joe to run his way begging for deliverance from the sharp fangs and claws of a fierce dog whose first instinct was to cripple its prey. The young man walked up a small rise and along the edge of an open field, always following the sound of the dog. When he reentered the woods, he heard the barking grow more intense. It probably meant that the dog had spotted a slave. Hughes jogged in the direction of the noise.

In a couple of minutes, he was there. His dog was running in circles and barking like mad at the foot of a tree. About eight feet off the ground, on a low-lying limb, quivered Portia. She kept her eyes locked on the dog. She was paralyzed by fear.

Hughes could not keep from smiling. “Hello, my dear.”

A few minutes later, everyone was gathered in the cabin. Davis held his head in his hands, still dizzy from being bowled over; Stephens, having been yanked out of the water by Springfield, was soaked and coughing. Mallory held a towel to his bloody nose. Toombs was unscathed but twitched with nervousness. They were all disarmed and sitting. Higginson continued to watch over them from his boat. Clark described how he had followed Davis and the others from the hotel but was recognized and forced on board the boat at gunpoint.

“What’s the cargo?” asked Rook.

“I don’t know,” said Clark.

“Let’s find out.”

Rook and Springfield left the cabin and removed the hatch cover closest to them. Below it was a pile of coal. They yanked off the next cover, with the same result. Removing the third panel exposed even more of the stuff.

“This doesn’t look good,” muttered Springfield.

“We’re not done yet,” said Rook.

One by one they tore off the hatch covers, always finding coal beneath. Finally, with just two panels remaining, they discovered something else: a dozen wooden kegs.

“What do you suppose that is?” asked Springfield.

“I have an idea,” said Rook. “Wait here.” The colonel went back to the cabin and found a hatchet. When he returned, he broke open the top of the keg. Black powder spilled out.

Rook examined the other kegs and searched between them. When he saw what he was looking for, he reached down and pulled up a white coil of string. He set it on top of a keg and hacked it in half. A fine black powder poured out of the string too.

“Do you know what this is?” asked Rook.

“No.”

“It’s a fuse. These kegs are full of blasting powder.”

Hughes whistled loudly, silencing the dog and compelling it to sit still. He thought that Portia would be relieved to see him, but instead she seemed to panic. She grabbed a branch above her head and prepared to pull herself higher into the tree.

“You should be happy to see me, Portia,” he said. “I’m the only thing that stands between you and this vicious creature Mr. Bennett forced me to take along on our little romp in the woods.”

Portia spit in his direction. A big dollop of dribble landed on his forehead.

Hughes was stunned by her act. Why did she refuse to come down? He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

“This is silly, Portia. I mean you no harm. I merely want to take you back home, where you belong.”

Portia frowned. “Get away from me,” she said and then spit again. This time Hughes was ready and her aim not as good. The projectile landed on the ground near his feet. The dog, still sitting at attention, growled.

“Really, Portia. I’m sorry it has to come to this, but you leave me little choice,” said Hughes, pulling a pistol from his holster. “Come down right now, or I will use this, as much as I would regret doing so.”

Portia did not move immediately. Her alternatives were few. She could climb higher, but that would not stop Hughes from shooting her. Jumping at him did not seem like a good idea either-she was more likely to break her own bones than to hurt him. She scanned the other trees nearby but saw nothing to encourage her. Only one option made sense. She remembered something her grandfather once told her: When you don’t have a choice, you don’t have a problem. That was a bleak bit of advice, but it seemed that surrender probably was her only real choice. She eased herself down from the branch. A minute later she was on the ground. Hughes put his gun back into his belt, and Portia turned to face her pursuer.

The dog rose to its feet. It was on her left. She glanced at it nervously, and Hughes let the animal frighten her for a moment. “Back off,” he said finally, and the dog sat down again. It continued to stare at her, though.

“I don’t know why you’re trying to avoid me, Portia,” said Hughes. “I want to be your friend. I think you would like me if you simply tried.”

He stepped toward her. She might have taken a step away, except her back was already to the tree trunk.

“I can be good to you.”

Hughes now stood directly in front of her. He caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Very, very good to you.” Portia closed her eyes. Hughes brushed his hand against her neck. She swallowed hard. He moved his hand lower and cupped one of her breasts, feeling its curve and sensing its mass through her shirt. He massaged it lightly. The sensation aroused him. He lowered his hand again, keeping his eyes on her face. She was gorgeous. He had noticed this before, of course, but the difference between recalling her features in his mind and actually seeing them-and touching them-was enormous. He wanted her badly. Hughes hoped that she would not resist.

Portia opened her eyes, and Hughes saw the hatred. He wanted her to want him, but he wanted something else more, and so he just returned the gaze with a blank expression. She broke away from it a moment later, though, and glanced to her right. Hughes heard a commotion nearby and turned his head just in time to see Joe lunging at him with a knife. He must have been hiding behind a tree, Hughes realized-though he barely had time to complete the thought.

The big slave slammed into Hughes, driving his blade deep into the white man’s shoulder as they both tumbled to the ground. Hughes fell flat on his back and let out a terrible groan. Blood began to soak his shirt immediately. Joe ripped out the knife and jumped to his feet. He was preparing to thrust it again when the dog hurtled toward him. Joe raised his arm to block the animal. Its teeth clenched his forearm with the strength of a vise. Its claws raked Joe’s body. Joe managed to force his arm through this thicket of legs and drive the knife into the dog’s abdomen. It released his arm and howled. On its way down, Joe slashed upward and sliced its jugular. The dog was dead before it even hit the dirt.

Joe paused long enough to make sure the dog did not move, and then he stepped toward Hughes, still lying on the ground. Just as he was about to lean in and deliver a fatal blow, Hughes rolled to his side and pulled a pistol from his holster. He fired a single shot into Joe’s chest.

Portia screamed at the blast. The force of the impact knocked Joe backward. He tripped over an exposed root and fell-a sudden drop that caused Hughes’s next shot to miss. Now Joe lay prone on the ground, and Hughes stood up, but with difficulty. His left arm was lame from the wound to his shoulder. He struggled to remain steady and looked down at the large and growing red stain on his shirt. Then Hughes turned his attention to Joe, lying motionless nearby. He hobbled over to the slave and pointed his gun.

“Don’t shoot! Oh please, don’t shoot him!” cried Portia, who had barely moved since coming down from the tree.

Hughes looked at her. She could see that he was not all there. His eyes were bleary and his face was pale. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Then he collapsed, falling to the ground just a few feet from Joe.

Portia did not move for a moment. After the earsplitting fury, the ensuing silence was eerie. Not even the birds chirped. She looked at the two bodies in front of her. She saw that the chests of both men rose and fell. They were alive.

At the thought of Joe breathing his last, she rushed over to him. The wound to his chest was enormous. It appeared fatal. That was obvious even to someone like Portia, who had never seen a deadly gunshot wound before. When she touched his face, though, his eyes opened and the corners of his mouth tried to curl into a smile. “Portia,” he whispered.

“Joe! Don’t leave me! You can’t leave me!” she wailed, tears dripping down her cheeks. She started to sob.

“Portia…”

The effort to speak even these two syllables was an enormous strain. Portia gasped when he closed his eyes. Was this the end? He opened them again and seemed to summon all that was left in his failing body to utter a single word. “Go.”

Portia moaned and raised her head to the sky. “Why? Why? Why?” she pleaded. She looked back at Joe. He mouthed the word once more. This time he could give it no voice. Go.

Portia knew there was nothing she could do for him. She kissed his mouth lightly and touched his brow. “I love you,” she said. He closed his eyes. Portia sensed that he would not open them again. A minute later, his breathing stopped. Portia rose to her feet and looked at Joe for a long minute or two. She wanted to imprint his face in her memory forever. Then she checked her pocket for the photograph her grandfather had given her-it was still there-and escaped into the trees.

“Miners use blasting powder in coal country,” explained Rook. “There’s enough here to blow up something big, and I think we know exactly what they were intending to destroy.”

Springfield, Clark, and Higginson listened to the colonel describe how a few barrels of blasting powder in the basement of the Capitol-perhaps delivered in boxes labeled as food and later on moved to strategic locations-could turn the building into a pile of rubble.

“That must be why Davis and Stephens visited there yesterday,” said Springfield. “They were studying the foundations.”

Davis finally came to his senses during this discussion. “You have no proof of that, Bishop-if that’s even your real name,” he sneered.

“It’s just as much my name as Davis is yours,” replied Rook.

“You’ve got no business being here,” yelled Davis. “It’s not against the law to possess blasting powder!”

“As far as you’re concerned,” snapped Rook, pointing his finger in Davis’s face, “my word is the law.”

With Clark and Higginson keeping their guns trained on the men in the hold, Rook hopped off the barge. Springfield followed him. “What are we going to do with these fellows?” asked the sergeant. “He’s got a point. Have they actually committed a crime?”

“Let me worry about that,” said Rook. “Late tonight, when the streets are dark and quiet, we’ll take them to the Treasury and confine them to one of those rooms in the basement, far away from the main corridors. I don’t want anyone who doesn’t need to know about them to hear them or even to suspect that they’re locked away.”

“Sir?”

“What, Sergeant?”

“This seems unusual. Why don’t we take them to the new prison at the Old Capitol?”

“Let me worry about that. Just go to the Treasury and prepare a place for them. Keep all of this to yourself.”

It took Tate nearly an hour to arrive on the scene. His own pursuit had led him in exactly the opposite direction, and there had been plenty of distance to cover. Hearing the gunshots compelled him to give up his own chase immediately. In his experience, slave hunts rarely ended with violence, except perhaps where the dogs were concerned. Slave owners generally wanted their slaves returned alive and without serious injuries, and certainly without gunshot wounds that would make them less productive or harder to sell. Because the shots were unexpected, Tate believed his top priority now was to find his companion and see if he needed help. Besides, his trail was a hard one. His dog seemed to have trouble following the scent, pausing several times or doubling back on a path it already had taken. This was the mark of a slave who knew how to evade capture, Tate thought-and it was a trait he had not believed Portia or Joe to possess.

His dog found the remains of the bloody encounter before he did. It howled in a plaintive whine Tate had not heard it make before. He soon saw why. Three bodies lay motionless on the ground. The dog was obviously dead. No person or animal could have survived the huge wounds it had suffered. Tate’s dog sniffed at the carcass, let out a few miserable squeals, and sat down with its head resting on its front paws. This must be how dogs grieve, thought Tate.

The overseer figured the fates of Joe and Hughes were no different than the dog’s. He examined the body of the slave first, and it did not take long to see that it was without life. The big gunshot wound in the chest probably was responsible, even though there was also a gash on the side of the head, a little above and behind an ear. Tate wondered if someone had clobbered the slave there, but then he noticed a small patch of blood on an exposed root a few inches away. Joe must have hit it on the way down.

Hughes lay a few steps away, and Tate initially assumed that he was a corpse too. But he saw that Hughes was actually breathing, albeit slowly. The blood had congealed around the stab he had taken from the knife. The wound was not a clean one, but Tate thought it might heal in time. It helped that Hughes had gone unconscious on his back. This stroke of luck probably saved him a good amount of blood and perhaps even his life. Tate poured water from a small canister into the injured man’s mouth. Hughes swallowed.

In the meantime, Tate would have to make a few decisions. Their slave-hunting party had been effectively reduced from two to one-Hughes would need days or weeks to recover-and now Tate could account for one of the two runaways he sought. A dog was dead too. Tate wondered about Portia. Had he been on her trail earlier? That was possible, though he had his doubts. And if that was not her trail, whose was it? Where was hers? Perhaps she had split off from Joe much earlier. Or maybe she was nearby, looking at him even now from some hidden spot. This thought forced him to examine his surroundings, spinning around like a slow-moving compass as he studied the area. There was nothing. He inspected the trees too, and there was still no sign of Portia. He did notice, however, that the sun lay low in the west. Twilight would come soon, and then darkness.

Tate determined that he was in no position to continue a pursuit that might very well fail. He did not think it was a good idea to abandon Hughes either. He knew that Bennett appreciated Portia far more than many of his slaves. As an attractive young female, she was a valuable commodity. It occurred to him that much of what he liked about her, though, was her connection to Lucius-and this was a tie that Bennett might now scorn. There was the very real possibility Portia would be caught by somebody else and returned for a bounty, too. Tate knew he was not the only person who could bring her home.

This was the proper course, he decided: save Hughes and let Portia go, at least for now. And so he quit the chase.

Violet Grenier stood on her porch and watched her final guest trudge up Sixteenth Street, turn right on I Street, and disappear from view. It was almost midnight. Clouds obscured the waxing moon. Behind her, inside the house, she could hear Polly straightening the foyer. The girl could be quite efficient late at night, when she knew that only a few chores stood between her and sleep.

Grenier wondered if the senator would turn around and wave as he sometimes did, but she was not surprised when he did not. She knew he was frustrated. He had lingered, waiting for the other guests to leave. When they were finally alone, she had pressed him for information about the president’s meeting with the governor of Maryland and the mayor of Baltimore earlier in the day. She had hoped he would know something about it and what impact it would have on the movement of soldiers as they approached Washington.

The senator was normally a reliable source of information. He was from a Northern state, but he was sympathetic to the Southern cause and certainly had no fondness for Lincoln. His usual talk about committee deliberations would have bored many women, even in Washington. Yet Grenier listened to every word. She never took notes while he was talking, but she often wrote down his observations and comments when he was gone, passing them on to friends in Virginia and points south. Sometimes she was able to do this an hour or two after he first knocked on her door. Occasionally, though, she had to wait until morning before he was gone. The senator was one of her more familiar acquaintances.

On this night, however, Grenier had rebuffed his gentle advances. The day had been long. Although she was often full of energy as the hour grew late, she longed for sleep. Besides, she had already shared her bed today.

Would she see Mazorca again? She knew that she might not. If he actually accomplished his mission, she would be more than content never to lay eyes on him again. Yet she also recognized that she would enjoy more of his company. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to be attracted to a man. The ones she knew nowadays, such as the senator, were merely useful. Mazorca was different. He was satisfying.

Grenier lingered outside her front door, breathing the crisp air. She thought that perhaps she would sit by an open window upstairs as she jotted down a few notes. Then she could sleep and dream.

She had turned around and stepped through her front door when she heard a noise coming from H Street. A group of soldiers shuffled into view, their boots scraping across the dirt-filled street. There were three of them, heading east, and they surrounded four other men who were not in uniform. Grenier could see that these men were prisoners, their hands bound behind their backs. Their mouths appeared to be gagged as well. This detail made her curious. She had seen prisoners marched through the streets before, but they had not been gagged as these were.

As they passed by, about fifty feet from her doorway, none of them appeared to see her. The light from inside her house was weak and apparently did not draw their attention. Besides, they were preoccupied with their prisoners. When one of them glanced up Sixteenth Street, she recognized his face. It was Colonel Rook. She doubted he would involve himself with criminals who had committed petty offenses.

A disturbing thought entered her mind. She looked at the prisoners more carefully, wondering who they might be. Was Mazorca among them? It was difficult to see much in the blackness, and now their backs were turned to her as they crossed Sixteenth Street and continued along H Street. She could not rule it out. As they passed St. John’s Church, Grenier hustled across the street and into the church’s courtyard.

A bush snagged her petticoat. If she had not been trying to move in silence, she might have cursed it. Instead, she quickly pulled it loose, not bothering to inspect the damage, and darted between the columns on the front of the church. Peering around the side, she saw the entourage of soldiers and prisoners about a block ahead of her. As they turned right on Fifteenth Street, she raced into Lafayette Park. If people had seen her running, they might have thought she was fleeing an assailant. Yet the park was empty. Nobody saw her as she flitted through, emerging on the corner by the State Department, a little brick edifice across the street from where she now stood.

From this vantage point, on the short strip of Pennsylvania Avenue that ran between the White House and Lafayette Park, Grenier could see a portion of Fifteenth Street. The soldiers had not yet come around the block, but she could hear their footsteps. She hurried across the Avenue, behind the State Department. Its windows were dark. She sidled along its exterior, turning a corner and moving forward until she came to a spot where she could crouch down and hide as the group came into view.

Rook was in front. She could tell right away that Mazorca was not among the prisoners who followed him. They were too big, too small, or the hair was wrong. She breathed a sigh of relief and scolded herself for embarking on a pointless excursion. Had she really gone this far in order to disprove that Mazorca was captured? If so, it would suggest that she was not thinking straight about him. That was a problem.

She did not budge from her spot because the men were still coming toward her. As they approached, she was able to study their faces-and she recognized Davis. What a fool, she thought. His plans were larger than his abilities. She knew it almost from the moment she had met him. Now he was caught. Stephens was with him as well. She wished that they had not come to her house. It was a shame that they had even come to Washington at all.

In a moment, the men passed by. She kept watching them, expecting a turn to the left, away from the barricaded Treasury Department. But when they turned, they actually went through the barricades and into the building.

For several minutes, Grenier did not move. She had not harbored high hopes for Davis and Stephens. She was disappointed in them as well as for them. Even worse than the disappointment, however, was the confusion: why would Rook take prisoners to any place besides the new prison in the Old Capitol?

She went back to her house, scribbled a few notes, and tried to sleep. But her mind was racing.