The First Assassin

TWELVE

SUNDAY, APRIL 21, 1861

Portia stopped at the edge of a field and realized suddenly that the morning had arrived in all its brightness. She had stumbled through the night in a daze of walks, jogs, and mad dashes. The last fifteen hours were a blur. She had fled from a scene of horror and tragedy-the spot where a man she loathed tried to take her by force and where a man she loved gave his life so that her own might go on. For a long while she had simply crashed through the woods, desperate to get away from that place and not concerned about where she was headed.

Shortly before dark, she had found a road. She took it south, plodding onward, step by step. She had no idea how far she had traveled or how near she was to Charleston.

Her feet throbbed. She considered removing her shoes and going barefoot. The penny-sized holes in her soles made her partially barefoot as it was. But she worried about stepping on a sharp stone that she could not see in the dark. As painful as it was to keep pushing forward, she was determined not to give up.

The daylight caught her by surprise because the road had run through a forest for a couple of miles. Now a plantation complex lay before her. In the distance she could see the manor. Behind it were all the outbuildings, including the slave quarters. She wondered why nobody was in the fields. With the sun up, there should have been plenty of activity. Was it abandoned? Then she remembered: this was Sunday morning.

This realization filled Portia with a powerful sense of relief. Slaves often left their plantations on Sunday to visit friends and relatives who lived nearby. She thought she might pass as one of these innocent travelers. Of course, slaves who left their plantations even on a Sunday carried passes signed by their masters or overseers, and Portia had no pass. Just about any white person could demand that she present one. For the first time in many hours, Portia tried to make a plan. She did not know what lay ahead, and she feared that pursuers were somewhere behind her with their hounds. The possibility of curling into a bed of leaves and sleeping through the day tempted her. Yet this was not necessarily the safest course.

She sat down in a spot where she could keep a watch on the road and the plantation but where nobody was likely to see her. It felt good to get off her feet. She removed her shoes and noticed the blisters for the first time. If she walked much further, she thought, they might force her to stop.

Portia reached into her pocket and removed the photograph her grandfather had given her. Was Joe’s life worth this little picture? The thought of Joe brought tears to her eyes. She had managed not to think of him much since he had told her to leave. Now the memory of him closing his eyes forever made her shake with sorrow. Then she welled up with anger. Holding the photograph in her hands, she thought about ripping it into pieces. She imagined herself doing it.

Then she remembered the last thing Joe had said to her: “Go.” He knew the stakes. He knew the risks. He did not want comfort as he drew his final breaths. He did not want her to make a heroic last stand. He wanted her to go on. She had started this journey because of her grandfather. Now she would finish it because of Joe.

Portia was still undecided about whether to walk in the daylight or to get some rest when she heard the sound of a horse-drawn wagon rolling down the road. It came into view through the trees a moment later. A black man drove it, pulling a load of burlap sacks. He was probably a slave on his way to Charleston for the Monday market. She wondered how long it would take him to get there. How nice it would be to hitch a ride. She could get to the city without maiming her feet any further and perhaps even shut her eyes for a spell.

Portia never understood why she did it-the chance of being noticed seemed too great-but she rose from her spot as the wagon passed. A moment later, she fell in behind the cart, placed her hand on its back end, and kept pace for twenty or thirty feet. When it hit a pothole and bounced, Portia threw herself onto the pile of bags. She studied the driver. He did not move. The wagon continued on its leisurely course. Portia wiggled beneath a few of the bags, which were full of rice. She adjusted several of them and settled into a hiding spot that was not exactly comfortable, but it would do. Her aching feet felt better almost right away. And then she closed her eyes.

Walking through Lafayette Park in the morning sun, Mazorca decided there would be nothing tentative about his visit to the president’s house. He would stride up the driveway, pass the guards under the portico, and enter the building like someone with legitimate business there. If anybody asked, he would say that he was seeking an appointment with the president. That was even sort of true.

Scouting the White House on the previous day had convinced him he could get in without raising suspicions. Perhaps the security on the inside was tighter than what he had seen on the outside. Perhaps he would have access only to a couple of the big rooms on the first floor. There was one way to find out. He had many basic decisions to make over the next few days-choices about when, where, and how. What he needed now was information to help him make these decisions. These details could not be found in books or conversations.

As Mazorca crossed Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House, he watched a group of Jim Lane’s men assemble on the front lawn. There were a good number of them, and they looked like a ragged bunch as they tried to herd themselves into neat rows and columns. Military drill was obviously not a specialty. These were men to have on your side in the chaos of a barroom brawl, thought Mazorca, but not necessarily on a battlefield, where preserving order was vital.

He did not pause to observe them as he neared the house. Two guards stood under the portico again, but they were more interested in watching the spectacle on the lawn than the approaching visitor. Neither took his eyes off Lane’s men, and it was not until Mazorca had passed through the short gate and grabbed the knob on the front door that one soldier bothered to give him a quick glance. Mazorca was ready to explain himself when the bluecoat delivered a slight nod and turned his attention back to the lawn.

“A fine spot we’ll be in if we’re forced to stand by these men under fire,” he said with the slight brogue of an Irish immigrant.

Mazorca almost replied, but then he realized the guard was not talking to him.

“Say what you will, O’Malley, but these roughnecks are better than nothing-and right now they’re all we’ve got,” remarked the other guard.

They were letting him pass. Mazorca did not hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, he pushed the front door open and stepped into the White House.

He found himself in a foyer stocked with plain furnishings and badly in need of a paint job. A small chandelier drooped down from the ceiling. Through a glass screen held in place by an iron frame, this entranceway merged into long hall that ran left and right. A soldier sat on a wood bench against one of the walls. His eyes were closed.

Mazorca entered the hallway and turned to his right. He knew the East Room, presently occupied by Lane’s men, was located in the opposite direction. He saw a grand staircase at the west end of the hall. At the foot of the steps stood three well-dressed ladies listening to a man conclude a short lecture.

“Does anybody have a question?” asked the man.

“Let’s move on, Senator,” replied one of the ladies. “I’m anxious to see the portrait you mentioned earlier.”

“Then we shall continue our tour in the State Dining Room.”

With that, the little group filed into a room just to the left of the staircase. When they were out of sight, Mazorca reached the base of the steps and peered into the room they had entered.

He was surprised at its small size, perhaps thirty feet by twenty-five feet. An elegant table with fourteen chairs sat in the middle. Mazorca wondered if the president ever entertained more than a few diplomats, cabinet members, and congressmen at one time. He had thought about this dilemma only for a moment when the senator, standing before a fireplace, began a new speech.

“And here it is, above the mantel: the famous painting of our first president, by the extraordinary Gilbert Stuart.”

The picture was almost life-sized, and it showed a white-haired, red-cheeked George Washington dressed almost entirely in black. His face was expressionless. He held a sword in his left hand, and his right one appeared to beckon.

“You all know the story,” said the senator. “As the British marched on our capital almost half a century ago, the brave Dolley Madison refused to leave her mansion until she received assurances that this portrait would not be left behind. When unscrewing it from the wall took too long, she ordered the frame broken and the canvas removed. This heroic little woman got away just in time-and she saved a national artistic treasure from redcoats who would have been happy to see it swallowed in flames.”

One of his listeners let out a sharp gasp. Mazorca turned and walked away. At the opposite end of the hallway lay the East Room, and he made for it. He passed by a few closed doors on his right. On his left, he went by the entranceway where he had come into the building, and then a small staircase leading upward.

The East Room was large, with high windows on three sides. It was perhaps twice the size of the state dining room and appeared both majestic and worn out. The ceiling’s white paint had chipped in one corner, and a panel of grimy yellow wallpaper sagged in another. The signs of former grandeur were everywhere: three massive chandeliers, a detailed floral carpet, several marble fireplaces with tall mirrors hanging above them, thick maroon curtains covering the windows, and regal blue chairs. Gold trim seemed to decorate everything.

The most striking features, though, were the East Room’s occupants: the so-called Frontier Guards. About thirty of them lounged around playing cards or snoozing. They had transformed the room into a campground. A pile of backpacks rested to one side, and rifles stacked upright formed teepees beneath the chandeliers. The men were not responsible for the room’s faded appearance, but their presence had faded it further. The carpet wore a coat of dry mud. Pipe smoke drifted upward. Mazorca figured the dilapidation here was like the growth of a plant: too slow to watch minute by minute, but rapid enough to measure over the course of days.

After observing this scene, Mazorca left the East Room and returned to the stairs by the doorway. He began to climb them, half expecting to be stopped by a soldier. The mansion’s security-or, more accurately, the almost total lack of it-astonished him. He had visited capital cities in other countries before and had seen official residences. He was not sure he knew of a single one that was open to the public, let alone one that permitted the free movement he enjoyed here. Some Americans, he knew, would applaud this as a praiseworthy feature of their democratic nation. Mazorca believed it was sheer foolishness.

He arrived in an office vestibule on the second floor. There was nobody in it, but he observed a small population of men lined up in an adjoining hallway, which he could see through a pair of glass doors. There were probably fifteen of them, all civilians. To his left was an open doorway into another room. Just as he was about to enter it, a tall, skinny man appeared on the threshold. He turned around, his back to Mazorca, and said, “When may I expect to hear something?”

“That is impossible to know, Mr. Meadors,” came a voice from inside the room. “Please be patient. We will inform you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Hay.”

Then Meadors nearly collided into Mazorca. He quickly apologized and departed into the hallway, where the crowd began to pepper him with questions. Mazorca paid them no heed and walked into the room Meadors had exited.

There was a window at one end and two doors along each side. It resembled a short corridor more than an office. By a desk in the middle stood a young man with a thin mustache, studying a set of papers in his hand. When he saw Mazorca, an expression of irritation crossed his face.

“I thought I told everyone to stay in the hallway until you were called,” he scolded.

“Please excuse me,” said Mazorca, “I thought-”

“Oh, never mind. The last one just left. But you probably know that. I’m John Hay, the president’s secretary.”

Hay held out his hand, and Mazorca shook it. Then a bell rang. Hay seemed to expect it.

“He’s ready,” said Hay. “You can expect to have about five or ten minutes. Come this way.”

Hay stepped to a mostly closed door on the north wall, pushed it open, and walked in. Mazorca followed. Before he even knew where he was, he heard the secretary say something he scarcely believed.

“Mr. President, your next appointment is here.”

Tate walked to the stables at the Stark farm, near the scene of the previous day’s violence. He had spent the night there with Hughes, who remained bedridden on the orders of a doctor summoned in the middle of the night. The young man would recover, but it would take time. Tate now wanted to get back to Bennett and let him know what had happened. It was a grim task, but he was determined to do it.

As he approached the stables, with his dog by his side, one of Stark’s slaves saw him.

“Jeremiah,” he shouted over his shoulder, “get Mr. Tate’s horses.”

A boy emerged with a group of horses: the one Tate had ridden, the one Hughes had ridden, and the two taken by Joe and Portia, which they had picked up along the way. A large sack drooped over the back of one animal. Inside of it was Joe’s cold body. Tate thought it made sense to have it buried on Bennett’s land.

Tate paid no heed to Jeremiah until the dog sniffed him and let out a yelp. Then it started barking wildly at Jeremiah. Tate hollered for silence. The dog obeyed but continued to stare and flick its tail. Tate thought the dog’s behavior was a clear sign of recognition. He studied the boy and wondered.

“What’s your name?” asked Tate.

The question startled Jeremiah. He was not used to white visitors taking an interest in him, except to scold. Tate repeated the question, and Jeremiah answered it.

“Have I seen you before, Jeremiah?”

“I don’t know,” said Jeremiah, a bit tentatively.

“Have you seen me?”

“Before today? I don’t think so.”

The dog remained agitated. It grumbled and refused to take its eyes off the boy.

“Do you know anything about runaways? If you know what’s good for you, answer truthfully.”

“I haven’t seen any.”

Tate liked to think he could spot a liar just by looking at him-it was an essential skill for an overseer. With Jeremiah, however, he just could not tell. Rather than shiftiness or defiance, he saw fear in the boy. It meant that either he really did not know anything about Portia and Joe or he was an above-average deceiver. Tate was tempted to put Jeremiah in shackles and quiz him.

But what would that solve? Hughes was badly hurt, and Tate did not want to alienate the Starks. Portia was long gone. It made sense to get back to Bennett’s. The overseer got on his horse and left. The horses followed Tate to the road, and the dog did too. But the dog also kept turning around for another look at Jeremiah. When the boy disappeared into the stables, the dog let out a final bark. Then it stayed by Tate’s side all the way home.

The basement of the Treasury was so dark and dank that if Rook had not known better, he might have thought it was a medieval dungeon. A king of old Europe might condemn a prisoner here and throw away the key. These were helpful atmospherics, thought Rook, but best of all was the obscurity of the place. Almost nobody ever came down here-the only reason Rook had learned of it was because he had inspected the building several weeks earlier, when he was assessing its value as a defensive structure. The place was a warren of rooms filled with everything from dusty financial records to pieces of broken furniture. In one remote corner, however, was a short corridor of empty chambers that were little more than glorified closets. It was here that Rook had taken his four prisoners from the C amp;O Canal, placing them in separate rooms.

Through the night, Rook, Springfield, and Clark had taken turns grilling Davis, Stephens, Mallory, and Toombs. The interrogations had not gone well. Rook had a long list of questions: What were their real names? Where were they from? Why had they walked around the Capitol? Why had they visited Violet Grenier? What were they planning to do with the blasting powder?

After a while, it became apparent that Mallory and Toombs did not say much because they did not know much. Yet even they held their tongues on simple questions about their identities. Davis and Stephens seemed to have more to hide, but they did not budge either. Rook could think of no easy way to compel them. Out of sheer frustration, he had kicked Davis in the gut and threatened to do worse, but to no avail. Rougher techniques were an option though he did not feel confident about resorting to them-at least not yet.

“What are we going to do with these men?” asked Springfield.

“Right now, we’re not going to do anything with them,” said Rook. “We know they can’t do any harm here. After a day or two of sleeping on the floor and hoping that we’ll bother to feed them, they may prove more cooperative.”

The colonel wished he could summon someone with more expertise at asking questions and obtaining answers. Unfortunately, he didn’t know anybody in the city with these skills. An even more fundamental problem than finding the right person, however, was Rook’s desire for secrecy. He was running a rogue operation without General Scott’s knowledge or approval-a clandestine program that, as he saw it, was necessary in order to counteract the complacency of his superior officers. Asking around for personnel would merely draw attention to what he was doing.

He suspected that he could keep Davis and the others locked up for at least a few days without anybody noticing. Perhaps time would break their resolve. There would be logistical matters, such as providing them with food and water, though Rook did not feel particularly inclined to give them much of either. Hunger and thirst might erode their willpower as well. Would he have to post a guard outside their doors? He was tempted not to. Right now, only he, Springfield, and Clark knew of the prisoners. He wanted to keep it that way. But could he? What if somebody happened to wander through the basement? What if the prisoners sensed that they were alone and yelled for help? Would someone hear?

How all this would play out remained unclear. For now, Rook told himself that he had achieved his most immediate objectives: determining that Davis and company were an actual threat, and then preventing them from carrying out their plans. For the time being, perhaps this was enough of an accomplishment.

“This will be difficult to keep hidden,” said Springfield.

“Let me worry about that,” said Rook. “If it becomes a problem, I’ll take the blame.”

“Just tell me what to do.”

“We aren’t going to learn anything from these fellows, at least not now. We should try to learn more about the people they’re working with. There must be others. Violet Grenier may be the key.”

On hearing her name, Springfield remembered his excursion of the previous morning, when he’d followed the stranger from Grenier’s home to the boardinghouse on H Street. He told Rook about it, including the detail about the man’s ear.

“Do you think he’s connected to Davis and the others?” asked the colonel.

“It’s impossible to say. He’s definitely connected to Grenier, and she’s definitely connected to them.”

Rook ordered Springfield to keep Grenier under watch for the rest of the day. The colonel himself had to rush around the city making appearances at several posts-he had neglected his rounds yesterday and could not afford to do it again. Clark, meanwhile, would stand guard over the prisoners.

As Rook and Springfield left the Treasury and walked into the sunlight, the colonel issued a final order. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t let anyone spot you.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“You can always hide behind that mustache of yours.”

John Hay handed a clutch of papers to Abraham Lincoln and quit the room. He closed the door, leaving Mazorca alone with the president.

“Hello,” said Lincoln, who sounded slightly bored. The two men shook hands. Mazorca was struck by the president’s long fingers and firm grip. Lincoln gave Mazorca’s torn-up ear a quick second look, as so many people did. He gestured to a short chair. Mazorca parked himself in it, and the president began to rustle through the material Hay had given him.

As Lincoln read, Mazorca glanced around the room. The president’s office was functional rather than grand. A modest desk sat in a corner, near one of the room’s two windows and beside a fireplace. Above the mantel was a portrait of Andrew Jackson. The opposite wall displayed a pair of maps. A long table dominated the middle of the room. It was big enough for a cabinet meeting, thought Mazorca. A small lamp rested in its center, amid a mess of documents. A black gas line ran up from the lamp to a modest chandelier above it. Sunlight from the room’s big windows and yellow wallpaper brightened the space. Next to the president, a cord dangled from the ceiling. By pulling on it a minute earlier, Mazorca assumed, the president had rung the bell in the waiting room.

Lincoln himself was all angles. His knees and elbows made sharp points as he sat with crossed legs, hunched over the papers. His face looked as though an ax had carved it from a block of wood, with jagged edges and severe lines. The deep creases were distinctive but not conventionally handsome. Lincoln’s eyes were a light blue fading into gray, and they sparkled with intelligence from deep sockets. Messy hair and a beard running low along his jaw framed his countenance. Mazorca thought Lincoln was one of the oddest looking men he had ever seen.

“You have a letter here from your congressman, plus notes from a few of my local supporters.” Lincoln continued shuffling the papers. “One of these men even seems to think that he alone is responsible for my election,” he said, more to himself than his guest. “And now this immodest fellow expects a reward for getting me into this fine fix.” The president emitted a sound that was half grunt and half chuckle. Then he looked at Mazorca. “So, Mr. Collins, tell me why you want to become a lighthouse keeper in New Jersey.”

Mazorca tried not to look surprised. “Somebody must offer protection against the reefs and shoals.”

“We must all steer clear of them-ships of sea and ships of state.”

“Indeed.”

Lincoln waited for more of a response, but Mazorca did not want to say too much. He had not planned to be in this position, and he did not like to do anything he had not planned. But neither did he want a good plan to get in the way of an excellent opportunity. He knew his assignment required seizing every advantage handed to him. Here was Lincoln, seated before him and ignorant of any personal danger. They were alone.

At last the president decided to carry on. “Lighthouses have always intrigued me, Mr. Collins. When we see a light shine in the darkness, we are invariably drawn to it, like the proverbial moth and flame. The light attracts us. It invites us to come closer. And yet in the case of lighthouses, the light is often a warning. Its message is to stay away. If we approach, we perish.”

“It is important to know what things to avoid.”

Lincoln closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and tilted his head upward. He was trying to remember something.

“Confess yourself to heaven,” he said. “Repent what’s past; avoid what is to come.”

He opened his eyes to a blank expression on Mazorca’s face. The president smiled. “Never mind me-just a little Shakespeare. I reread those lines in Hamlet only a few nights ago.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between the two men. Mazorca assumed that Lincoln had grown accustomed to guests who did nothing but beg favors. “I suppose you wish there were lights to guide you through the darkness now, in these troubled times,” said Mazorca.

“I surely do,” replied the president. “But I would also want to know whether the lights come from a harbor calling me in or a reef warning me away.”

“Some things are not as they seem. The trick is to know which is which.”

Lincoln’s eyes narrowed. “How many legs would a dog have, Mr. Collins, if you called his tail one?”

Mazorca paused at this riddle. He wanted to say five but knew that could not be the answer. “I’ll guess four, because calling his tail a leg would not make it one.”

The president smiled. “You are a clever fellow. Most people don’t get that one.”

“It’s an easy mistake.”

“A careless one, too. It reminds me of a story. One day, a farmer was working around his property when his son-a boy of about ten years-came rushing up to him. ‘Pa,’ he shouted, full of excitement, ‘come quick! The hired man and sis are in the barn, up in the hayloft. He’s pullin’ down his pants and she’s liftin’ up her skirt!’”

Lincoln paused, barely able to suppress a big grin. It appeared as though he had told this story many times and took delight in watching it fall on fresh ears.

“‘Pa,’” continued Lincoln, in the earnest voice of the boy, “‘they’re gonna pee all over our hay!’”

Lincoln howled at this line, doubling over in his seat. As the president wiped an eye with his sleeve, Mazorca smiled politely and tapped his foot. He felt the holster strapped to his calf. The possibilities buzzed through his mind. All he would have to do was pull up his pant leg and remove the gun. He had thought the deed might be accomplished from a distance, with a rifle. Now he wondered if it could be done up close. It would be easy, unbelievably easy. But then, this was always the easy part. The hard part was the escape.

Mazorca found himself enormously tempted to take advantage of this extraordinary moment. He looked at the window but knew from his earlier observations that the drop to the ground was too far. He would probably break a leg, or worse. The sound of the shot would set off an alarm through the whole house, too. Hay would burst in immediately, followed by the men waiting in line in the other room. Some of them were sure to have weapons. Mazorca thought he might hold them off for a moment with his pistol, but he knew a gunfight was not in his interests. Scores of Lane’s men would swarm the White House and its grounds in seconds. They would spot a man running across the south lawn and begin a chase-and a chase was the thing he most wanted to avoid. The way to escape after killing a target was not to become a target right afterwards. That meant creating uncertainty about where the shot came from and who pulled the trigger. Ideally, he would walk away calmly from the scene of an assassination.

“I have received several other inquiries about lighthouses in New Jersey,” said Lincoln, when he finally stopped laughing. “You are by no means the first and may not be the last. I have not made any decisions yet and will give your request full consideration.”

Mazorca realized he was being released from the interview, but he wanted this bizarre meeting to continue. He nodded at the portrait of Jackson. “I did not take you to be an admirer of his.”

“Doubt my credentials, do you?” smiled the president. “I thought doubting credentials was my job.” He gave a short laugh, a high-pitched hee-haw, and looked at the picture.

“Many people assume that a Republican like me wouldn’t hang his picture. It was here when I moved in-a remnant of the previous administration. I had hoped it might bring me some success in my own dealings with South Carolina. I suppose that’s what Mr. Buchanan wanted too. It didn’t help either of us much, did it? President Jackson had a little more luck with that state than we did.”

Lincoln paused for a moment and made eye contact with Mazorca, who sat motionless. “It does remind me of another story, which comes from that old revolutionary war hero Ethan Allen. Do you have time for a short one?”

Mazorca nodded his approval. Sometimes a fruit appearing ripe on the outside could be rotten on the first bite. He decided to let Lincoln survive this accidental encounter. Their next meeting would be different.

“Allen was visiting England, sometime after our country had secured its independence,” said Lincoln. “His hosts enjoyed poking fun at Americans, so they put a picture of George Washington in the most undignified place they could imagine-the back room, you know, where they kept the toilet. They could hardly wait for their guest to see the picture and were delighted when Allen excused himself for a moment. His hosts were bursting with anticipation while he was away, and they guessed at what Allen might do or say when he returned. They were startled, though, when Allen came back in with a huge grin on his face. He did not appear even mildly annoyed. One of his hosts finally asked, ‘What did you think of the decor?’ And Allen replied, ‘Very appropriate. In fact, I cannot think of a better place for an Englishman to hang a picture of General Washington than above the can.’ The reply confused everybody, so the host asked, ‘Why is that?’ And Allen replied, ‘Because there is nothing in the world except the sight of General Washington that will make an Englishman so quick to shit!’”

Lincoln roared at the punch line, slapped his knee, and rose from his seat. Mazorca did not quite grasp the point of the story, but he stood up too and understood he was being dismissed for good. Maybe that was the point.

Lincoln put a hand on his shoulder as they walked to the door. “You are a man of few words, Mr. Collins. That is probably a good quality in someone seeking out the loneliness of lighthouse work. You also seem to have a talent for riddles. I’ll see what I can do for you. Good day.”

Looking out the window for Hughes and Tate made Bennett feel helpless. Years ago, he would have led the pursuit of Portia and Joe. Now, every glance made him tense. This was no pursuit of ordinary fugitives. Portia and Joe had something in their possession that he desperately wanted to have returned.

Bennett tried to reason his way out his anxiety. The odds of these two slaves making it all the way to Washington were incredibly low. Even if they did make it, they might not arrive in time. Mazorca would strike at some point. Bennett did not know when or how, but he knew it would happen. Anything the slaves did after that would come too late. And even if by some miracle they made it to Washington and also made it in time to interfere with Mazorca, there was the very distinct possibility that nobody would take them seriously. They would have to convince the right people in government that their photograph contained important information. Yet they were nothing but a pair of runaway slaves who could not even write their names on a scrap of paper.

It was early in the afternoon, following a small lunch he had eaten alone in the dining room, when Bennett finally saw something. In the distance, a man on a horse turned onto the path leading up the manor. Behind him were three horses without riders. Was that Tate?

Bennett walked onto the porch. He saw that it definitely was his overseer. But why was Tate by himself? Where was Hughes? What was that big sack draped across the back of a horse? Its shape and size troubled him. His mood darkened as Tate approached the steps and stopped.

“What is going on here, Mr. Tate? Where is Mr. Hughes?”

“I have some very bad news to report, Mr. Bennett.” Tate explained what had happened.

When he was done, Bennett summarized what he had just heard: “So Hughes is hurt, Joe is dead, and Portia is missing. I presume this is Joe’s body you have here?”

“I thought we should bury it here at the plantation.”

“Remove the body from the horse immediately and put it on the ground right here.”

“I thought I would take it directly to the slave cemetery, sir, and gather Joe’s relations for a quick funeral. We really should get this body in the ground soon.”

“Did you hear me, Mr. Tate?” yelled Bennett. “Do it now.”

Tate was baffled by the request, but he and a slave lowered the body to the ground. The stiffness made it difficult to manipulate.

“Remove the wrappings,” commanded Bennett.

They uncovered Joe’s corpse. Its skin had assumed an ugly gray pallor. The stench was strong. Tate took a step back.

“Search the clothes.”

Tate was puzzled. “What am I looking for?”

“Just do it!”

The overseer knelt beside the corpse and began patting it. He stuck his hand in the pant pockets. From one he removed the crumbled remains of a biscuit. In another he found a small slingshot and several round stones. He placed these beside the body.

“Take them off.”

“Sir?”

“The clothes. Remove them from his body. I want them thoroughly searched.”

Tate did not move right away. He considered this a strange request. “It would help to know what you’re looking for,” he said.

“I know what I am looking for, and I will recognize it when I see it. That is all you need to know.”

Tate began to take off the clothes, piece by piece. The shirt was the hardest to remove, having become crusty with dried blood. The whole experience was humiliating. Tate not only resented having to perform this indecent chore. He also resented having to do it where a number of slaves could see him. This is a story that will spread fast, he thought. He worried about what this desecration would do to his reputation around the farm. Certainly it would not make things any easier for him.

When Joe’s naked body lay exposed before Bennett and it was clear that no more searching could be done, Tate looked up at his boss. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Damn it, Tate. He does not have what I want. You should have followed Portia.”

Bennett stormed up the steps to the manor. The door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang.

Nobody had moved from the scene. Tate took command. He ordered a slave to lead all but one of the horses to the stables. He told two others to dress Joe again, wrap him up, and put him on the back of the remaining horse. He sent a final slave to fetch a few shovels. When the body bag was in place and the shovels in everybody’s hands, Tate took the reins of the horse and began to walk to the slave cemetery. This was on the edge of Bennett’s property near the road. It was a fairly large section of land, having been in use for several generations. The graves were unmarked.

The most direct route from the manor required Tate to walk by the slave quarters. As he approached them, a crowd began to gather. They whispered among themselves. Before anybody called out to ask what had happened, Sally appeared on the scene. When she saw Tate, she dropped the pot she had been holding. It cracked when it hit the ground. Soup sprayed everywhere. She ran toward Tate. “Oh Lord, don’t let it be true,” she screamed. “Please don’t let it be true.”

But it was true. Joe had come home, and he would never leave again.

The cat startled Violet Grenier when it jumped onto her desk. She rubbed the black-and-white animal behind its ears, listening to it purr. “That’s a good boy, Calhoun,” she said, in a baby-talk voice. The cat was named after John Calhoun, the South Carolina politician who had served as a vice president, a cabinet officer, and a senator. He had died a decade earlier and since then had achieved an iconic status among Southern partisans. When the cat made an appearance at one of her parties, Grenier loved to tell her guests its name. She especially enjoyed teasing Northerners who stroked its fur. “See how easy it is to please him?” she would say. “That’s what I like about cats. They demand so little-just a bit of freedom.”

At the thought of this barbed comment, Grenier smiled and leaned back in her chair. She felt a cramp in her back and realized that she had been sitting for too long. It was time to take a break. She set down her pen and rose from the seat where she had composed letters for much of the afternoon. The most important of these letters had been the most difficult to write. She had saved it for last because she was unsure of what to say.

The adventure of the previous night, when she had followed the soldiers and their prisoners to the Treasury Department, had left her confused. One plot was now foiled. This was no loss. Yet she wondered exactly how it had been defeated. How much of the conspiracy was compromised? Would the prisoners talk to their captors? How much would they say? Would her acquaintance in New York become exposed? Would she find herself implicated?

If they mentioned visiting her, she could expect to face difficult questions. She could deny knowing them, or at least deny knowing their plans. The fact that she was a woman could prove advantageous-the chivalry of her interrogators might coax them into believing her professions of total innocence. She could confess to holding the Southern sympathies for which she was already well known. “But no lady in my position would associate herself with the schemes of ruffians,” she said grandly, as if practicing for the occasion. Calhoun looked up at her and meowed. “I’m glad you approve,” she said. She stroked his neck.

Her wiles might help, but Grenier appreciated that perhaps she was falling into some danger. What were her choices? Leaving Washington was an option, though one she did not want to take. She was needed here. A man could put on a uniform and fight in a battle. Grenier knew that wars were not always won by strength of arms. Generals needed reliable information almost as much as their troops needed ammunition-and Grenier understood that she was in a unique position to provide information about federal activity that perhaps nobody else could obtain. Men were willing to die defending the rights of the South. Grenier was determined to help them win in any way she could. This cause was bigger than any man-or any woman.

A Bible rested on her desk, propped open to Matthew. It helped her compose her letter to New York: “A stranger recently told me that ‘Wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction,’” she had written. “Success, however, is a strait gate-and the one he had hoped to pass through is now shut.” She thought perhaps it said enough without saying too much. It would mean little to anyone but its recipient, and to him it would convey an important piece of news. How he used this information would be his own concern. For her part, Grenier felt that he at least deserved to possess it.

She tucked the letter into an envelope and sealed it. Her thoughts turned to Mazorca, as they had done so many times since the day before. She had given herself to him freely-something she had not done with a man in quite a while. Her trysts always involved some kind of transaction, as she sought to extract a fact or obtain a favor. Mazorca was different. She had wanted nothing from him but the pleasure of his company, and she indeed had found it pleasurable.

Mazorca had not said anything about a second visit. There may not be a reason for one, she realized-or at least not a professional reason. They had not spoken directly about why he was in Washington. Yet she knew what task lay before him and understood the importance of discretion. He needed to keep a low profile. Still, he had given her his address at Tabard’s, for use in an emergency. Or was it an invitation?

Grenier gazed out her window. Her eyes settled on a man standing at the corner across the street, in front of St. John’s Church. He seemed to be doing nothing in particular, as if he were waiting on a friend. A loiterer was not remarkable, especially with Lafayette Park nearby. Yet something about him looked familiar. Had she seen him before? She thought that perhaps she had spotted him several hours earlier. That big mustache was hard to miss. Mustaches were fashionable these days. Only the oldest men, impervious to the latest trends, seemed able to shirk them. Mazorca, too-that was one of the things she liked about him. Yet the whiskers of the man outside her window achieved an astonishing thickness.

“Calhoun,” she said, turning away from the window and toward the cat. “Let’s keep an eye out for this fellow.”

Portia did not know how much time had passed when she woke up, but the shadows had grown long and the sun was plunging into the horizon. For a few minutes she did not move. The driver sat just a few feet away from her. She had not gotten a good look at him before hopping into his cart and burrowing beneath his rice sacks. If he had detected her, she probably would have known by now.

Could she trust him? All Portia could see was the back of his head. The gray flecks hinted at someone getting on in his years. He was humming a familiar tune, but Portia could not quite place it. The simple fact that he was alone and far away from his plantation suggested a strong loyalty to his master and a demonstrated ability to travel distances and always come back. Portia knew that some slaves would take an interest in helping her make it to Charleston, as Jeremiah had done. She also knew that others would seize opportunities to win the favor of whites by betraying runaways. She worried that this man was such a slave.

As Portia squirmed out from under the rice sacks, the soreness in her feet rushed up her legs. She winced. Sleep had provided a reprieve but not healing relief. Her blistered feet seemed to hurt worse than before.

The sun continued to sink. Portia lifted herself up and immediately recognized the sight in front of the wagon. She had seen it before when she was just a girl: the huddled mass of buildings, a skyline dominated by church steeples, and water in the distance. They were minutes away from entering Charleston.

The slow pace of the wagon made her anxious. Portia knew her real destination lay well within the city. As buildings began to appear on both sides of her, she wondered when she should make a move. Her head told her to slip out of the wagon soon. Her feet urged her to stay put.

The farther the wagon went into the city, the more crowded the streets would become. She started to hear voices and other vehicles passing them. It was important to get away without being noticed by the driver or anybody else. How long could she wait?

The wagon made a turn, and still Portia didn’t move. As the sky grew darker, she kept telling herself that she had to do something. The noises from outside the wagon began to fade. They were in a quieter part of the city now. She heard the driver’s humming again. She knew the tune from somewhere, but the words continued to elude her. Suddenly, the wagon stopped. So did the humming. Had she waited too long?

“Get out.”

She sat up straight, not sure where the voice had come from. The wagon was on some kind of side street. All was quiet. There were no people around except for her and the driver. He still faced away from her, but the command only could have come from one place.

“Get out before I change my mind.”

It was definitely the driver talking to her. Portia crawled over the rice sacks to the rear of the cart and lowered herself to the ground. She did this with care, but her feet still burned with pain. She limped to the side of the street and propped herself against the wall of a building. The wagon started to move again. The driver turned and nodded. She only saw his face for a moment, and there was kindness in it.

“Good luck.”

The wagon traveled another block, turned, and vanished from sight. Had he known the whole time that she was there? She could not be sure-her deep sleep had lasted the better part of the day. Now it hardly mattered. He was gone, and it was a detail. She had to find her way to Nelly’s, by the Battery. It was at the end of a long street that cut through most of the city, she remembered. She hoped she could find it.

After walking about half a block, however, she had to stop because of her feet. She slipped into a narrow alleyway and sat down. A troubling thought came to her mind: what if the wagon driver really wanted her caught? Perhaps he had dropped her off only to inform the local authorities of her presence. Why would he let her go only to see her captured? It made no sense. Portia told herself not to panic. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

Then she remembered the words to a song she had known for years. It was a secret song, one that slaves sang when only slaves were present-and never in the fields where a white person might overhear.

Master sleeps in the feather bed,

Slave sleeps on the floor;

When we get up to Heaven,

There’ll be no slaves no more.

This was the song the wagon driver had hummed. She got up and started walking again. This time she hummed it too.

When Rook arrived at the Winder Building, a soldier posted outside said the general was in the big room near the back of the building. Normally they met in Scott’s office-this other place was reserved for larger groups, such as the general’s whole senior staff. Rook had attended a few of these gatherings, but he had not heard about this one. It must have been called at the last minute. Was there news of war?

Officers filled the room. Rook noticed that Scott had dressed himself in full regalia, the way he did when he had a meeting with the president. The colonel wondered why. Lincoln wasn’t here. Then he saw a man with wavy hair and a sharply angled nose that looked almost like a snout. It was William Seward, the secretary of state-the man who nearly had received the Republican nomination for president the previous year. If Lincoln had not grabbed it from him, in fact, Seward probably would be president today. Some people said Seward was the real leader of the administration. Others believed he was ferociously jealous of Lincoln.

Rook ignored the officers who milled around and went straight for a chair at the large table. A moment later, Scott’s booming voice interrupted all conversation.

“Please be seated, gentlemen. Let’s get started.”

Everyone found a chair.

“You have probably noticed that we are joined today by a distinguished guest,” said Scott. “Welcome, Secretary Seward.” The general bowed his head slightly, and men grunted greetings from around the table.

“Thank you very much, General Scott,” said Seward. “This is a difficult moment for our country, but we in the administration are comforted to know that the protection of the capital and the president are in your capable hands.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” replied Scott. “Let us proceed now to our reports. Where’s General Johnston?”

Heads bobbed around the room. Quartermaster General Joseph E. Johnston should have been at the table, but he was missing. It did not take much thinking to realize why: he was a Virginian and believed to hold secessionist sympathies.

“Unfortunate, but not unexpected,” mumbled Scott. The big general turned to his assistant, Colonel Locke. “When this meeting is concluded, find out where Johnston is and whether he has resigned.”

Locke scribbled a note to himself, and Scott continued. He spent the next several minutes describing recent events. It was one alarming piece of news after another. On Friday, federal troops passing through Baltimore on their way to Washington had sparked a riot. It was not clear who fired first. Either way, the results were grim: thirteen people killed, including four soldiers.

Rook leaned over to the captain beside him. “Nobody died at Sumter,” he whispered. “If there’s a war, then these men in Baltimore are its first casualties.”

The next day-yesterday-Baltimore’s rioters cut telegraph lines and destroyed railroad tracks coming into the city from Pennsylvania. This halted Washington’s mail and newspaper deliveries from the North. Trains continued to run irregularly from Washington to Baltimore, and they were packed with people trying to escape from the capital. Even more left by foot or carriage. The slow exodus of recent weeks was picking up. And word had come just hours before the meeting that the commandant at the Norfolk navy yard had ordered his garrison burned, his cannon spiked, and most of his ships scuttled. It was one defeat after another-first Sumter, then Harper’s Ferry, and now the clash in Baltimore and the capitulation at Norfolk. Rook worried that things would get worse before they got better.

“Let us proceed with the business at hand,” said Scott.

“We all know what happened in Baltimore on Friday, but today we have with us Colonel Edward F. Jones of the Sixth Massachusetts. His men are bunking in the Senate. He will give us a full report of what transpired.”

A lanky colonel stood. He described arriving in Baltimore by train and drawing a crowd as his men marched across the city. At first, agitators shouted insults. Then they began hurling bricks and stones. The troops kept their composure but grew aggravated. Finally, a shot went off-almost certainly from the mob and possibly from a musket that was stolen from one of the soldiers after he was hit in the face with a rock. “I have four dead soldiers and more than thirty injured to prove that our harassers were armed and willing to open fire,” said Jones. “We had no choice but to fire back.” They fought their way to the depot, boarded a train, and made it to Washington.

Seward stood up. “You fought bravely and well, Colonel,” he said. “On behalf of the government, let me say that we are all grateful for your sacrifice.”

Rook did everything he could to keep from rolling his eyes. Seward might be a cabinet secretary, but at heart he was a politician. Like so many other politicians, he enjoyed hearing himself speak and ingratiating himself to his listeners. He looked at soldiers, but he did not see warriors. He saw voters. Even so, Rook began to think that Seward’s presence today might prove useful.

“We are under siege and isolated, gentlemen,” said Scott.

“We are all that stands between the preservation of the Union and its ruin. Yet we do not possess an adequate force to defend Washington from an attack of any significance.”

“Will reinforcements come?” asked Seward.

“The New York Seventh is supposedly on the way. It cannot get here soon enough.”

Scott rattled off a series of orders. He told the officers already in charge of organizing armed citizen groups and marshaling provisions to redouble their efforts. He demanded stronger picket lines around the perimeter of the city and better intelligence on military activity in Maryland and Virginia. He insisted that sandbags be placed around the Treasury Department-if war came to the streets of Washington, it would become a military headquarters and a refuge for the president. The general reviewed evacuation procedures, including a scheme to escort the president from Washington if the city’s capture was imminent. He wanted a plan for everything and gave everybody something to do. Rook was responsible for monitoring the bridges and locating facilities for additional soldiers, should they ever come.

“Are there any questions?” asked Scott.

When nobody had any, Rook spoke. “General,” he said. “I might make a comment.”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Last Friday’s incident demonstrates the wisdom of President Lincoln’s decision to pass through Baltimore in the middle of the night rather than risk the fury of a mob. He has been greatly criticized for it, even by his friends and allies. It is said that he regrets having done it. Now we have fatal evidence showing that he was sensible to have been cautious.”

Seward leaned forward in his chair, which Rook viewed as an encouraging sign. Perhaps the secretary’s presence would force Scott to make a concession.

“We also have a better understanding of the enemy’s level of commitment and resourcefulness-and the knowledge that we have perhaps underestimated it,” continued Rook. “We’re responding effectively to the external threat. What about the internal threat? We know this city is full of secessionists-”

Scott interrupted. “What are you driving at, Colonel?”

“We can surround the Treasury with a wall of sandbags soaring above our heads, and it won’t do any good if a handful of secessionist vigilantes storm the president’s mansion. At the very least, we must improve our surveillance of likely instigators.”

A few heads nodded in agreement. An equal number did not move at all. Colonel Locke scoffed. Seward narrowed his eyes.

“I thought we had already discussed this matter,” said Scott. “Our focus now is on military operations. Sneaking and snooping won’t do us any good when Lee comes marching into northern Virginia at the head of an army.”

Seward raised his hand, stopping Scott’s commentary. “How serious is this problem, Colonel?”

“I would definitely call it serious-and made more so by a failure to recognize its potential. We just learned a painful lesson in Baltimore about not appreciating the lengths to which some people will go in opposing our aims. We must avoid making the same mistake here.”

Scott could not restrain himself any longer. “Mr. Secretary, you must understand that this colonel”-he emphasized the rank, as if to show it compared poorly against his own-“is making an old argument. We’ve gone over this many times before, and still he persists. Frankly, Colonel, it is beginning to smack of insubordination-and your desperate attempt to show off in front of the secretary here is embarrassing to me and all the other officers sitting around this table. You are now in charge of sandbagging the Treasury Department. You will devote yourself to this project exclusively. Others will assume your previous responsibilities.”

The meeting went on for another half hour. The only part Rook would remember was how Locke smirked and Seward stared for the rest of it.