The First Assassin

EIGHT

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 17, 1861

Little Maggie was the first to see them. She dropped her basket and sprinted down the tree-lined lane, yelping with the unbridled excitement of childhood. A few others heard her and joined the chase. Soon a dozen dark-skinned kids were running toward the three approaching carriages, whooping all the way.

Bennett always enjoyed the approach to his plantation manor. The innocent glee of these children gave him a deep satisfaction. He felt like a hero returning from a long absence, or a general from a great victory. This first encounter with the children never failed to stir the sensation of fatherhood in him. He loved this moment and looked forward to it every time he departed Charleston and headed for his ancestral home-his true home-in the South Carolina countryside. He leaned forward and waved from the window. The kids kept on running. They seemed oblivious to him, but that was okay. It was dusk, and hard for them to see inside the carriage.

Up ahead, at the foot of the porch, a small group of grownup slaves gathered. Sundown was quitting time, which meant that most of them had come in from the fields for the day and were near the manor. Bennett could see a bustle of activity behind them as several of the house servants performed last-second tidying. He knew they would have a hot meal ready for him by the time he walked through the front door.

The thought of food reminded him that Hughes had not yet made up his mind about staying for dinner. The young man’s own plantation was only a few miles away, and the pair had decided to travel from the city together. Bennett usually made the journey with Lucius, but this time he sat with Hughes, whose small cab was a bit cramped for three. Lucius rode behind in the Bennett carriage. It had been a long day for everybody. Yet neither Bennett nor Hughes was tired. In fact, they were both in an exceptionally good mood.

“So will you join us at the table this evening?” asked Bennett.

Hughes was peering out the window at the assembly of slaves. “I am anxious to get home,” he said, almost to himself. Then he snapped to attention and looked at Bennett. “But yes, I think I will join you, Langston.”

“That is good. You can send your carriage on and take one of my horses when we’re done.”

They rolled to a stop in front of the big house, which gave the children a chance to catch up and scramble around one of the carriages. They must think I’m in that one, Bennett thought.

Hughes hopped from the cab and then turned to help Bennett down. The aging plantation master stepped onto the gravel, treating his peg leg with special care. He expected the slave children to swarm him, but their attention was fixed firmly elsewhere. “Lucius! Lucius!” they cried, first in chaotic shouts and then a chant. Bennett felt abandoned.

“Lucius! Lucius!”

The old slave now emerged from his carriage. He wore an enormous grin on his face and greeted several members of his welcoming committee with quick pats to the head and some words Bennett could not hear. Lucius looked up and saw his master about twenty feet away, just standing there and staring. The slave’s smile disappeared.

“Lucius! Lucius!”

Lucius shushed the little throng and reached into his carriage. He pulled out a broad-rimmed hat and a big cane and walked at a brisk pace to where Bennett stood. The slave’s miniature entourage followed right behind, not yelling any longer but giggling the whole way.

“Here you are, sir,” said Lucius as he handed Bennett the hat and cane.

“Thank you, Lucius.”

The two men looked at each other in silence. Bennett could see that Lucius was anxious at the apparent snub his crowd of young admirers had just delivered.

“It must be good to see your family again,” said the master.

“Yessir,” replied the slave. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lucius. I can see a couple of your grandchildren here. Hello, Maggie,” he said, bending over to look at a small girl clutching Lucius’s leg. She took a step back. Bennett smiled and straightened up. “They ought to be happy at the sight of their grandfather!” he laughed, turning to the adult slaves who had just watched all of this. “And look, Lucius: over there is Portia. How this fine granddaughter of yours has become a lovely woman!”

Portia blushed. “Good evening, Mr. Bennett,” she said.

“Good evening, everybody!”

A buzz of activity erupted around the plantation master. A handful of slaves started to tend to the carriage and its horses, a couple more unloaded boxes and trunks, and a few others inquired about the ride. Lucius dashed into the house. As this was going on, a white man came into view from the far side of the manor. He barked orders from a hundred feet away in a booming voice, making it impossible to hear anything but his bellowing:

“Get those bags off and inside right away! Unhitch those horses! I want them cleaned tonight! Make sure there’s a table setting for Mr. Hughes!” The slaves were already attentive, but they seemed to move even more quickly at the sound of this loud man.

“Where did you ever find such an overseer, Langston?” asked Hughes. “I think they can hear him all the way to Charleston.”

“This place would not function without him,” laughed Bennett. “Hello, Mr. Tate.”

“Hello, sir. Welcome back. We missed you a few days ago.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tate. I longed to return too. But I could not ignore the recent events in Charleston.”

“Did you see the bombardment?”

“The whole city did. The entire population must have descended upon the Battery, even before dawn. Hughes and I managed to avoid the crowd by rising above it-we watched for two days through a spyglass on my rooftop. Nobody could actually hear the barrage because a strong wind was blowing out to sea. But we saw the wisps of smoke rise from Fort Moultrie and Morris Island and knew that Sumter was getting pounded. Every puff from our cannons won a cheer from the Battery. Around eight o’clock on Saturday morning, we could see a huge fire at Sumter, with enormous clouds of smoke billowing upward. This gave everybody a thrill. We thought Sumter would surrender at any moment. But the men inside continued to hang on for a few hours more. They must have been covered with soot, and I still wonder how they breathed.”

Bennett leaned on his cane and waved his arm about as he told the story, and Tate listened intently. Several of the slaves paused to hear the tale as well. The only person nearby not to give Bennett his full attention was Hughes, who could not take his eyes off Portia. She was short and fit, with bright eyes and caramel-colored skin that suggested race mixing somewhere in her background. Hughes guessed Portia was about eighteen years old. She was quite pretty-actually, she was beautiful-and he found himself desiring her. He quit looking, though, when he noticed the burly slave beside her. The big man’s arms were as thick as Hughes’s own neck. He stared directly at Hughes. It felt like a challenge. Hughes resented that. He refused to let a slave get in the way of anything he wanted.

As Bennett described Charleston’s jubilation when Sumter finally did surrender-ringing church bells, hot-blooded speeches, and bonfires lighting the sky through the night-Hughes gradually maneuvered himself beside Portia. Her concentration was fixed on the story, and she did not notice him approach. He leaned over and placed his lips next to her ear. “Mr. Bennett was correct,” he whispered. “You are a lovely girl.”

Portia trembled at the words. She looked at Hughes, who gave her a rakish smile. She frowned and took a step toward that big slave. “Joe,” she whispered, though she hardly needed to get his attention. She tried to focus on Bennett again but kept casting nervous glances in the direction of Hughes, who would not stop staring at her.

By now Bennett had returned to the subject of the federal troops trapped for weeks in Sumter and how they must have suffered, especially on the second day of the attack. “It is hard not to admire an enemy like that,” said Bennett. “But it is easy to feel contempt for the man who would force them through it. This Abraham Lincoln is a beast, Tate. He was not within his rights to keep the fort. I didn’t think he could sink further in my estimation, but he did when he made those poor men defend a cause as hopeless as Sumter’s. There was nothing they could do. Their effort went to waste, except that it must have satisfied Lincoln to let them endure pain and privation so that he could frustrate South Carolina, however briefly.”

Bennett’s face reddened as his excitement turned to anger. “Curse that man! He will stop at nothing to confound us. Look around you, Tate,” he said, gesturing to his house, his fields, and finally a few of his slaves. “All of what we have here will be gone if this man has his way. He is a danger to our lives and everything we hold dear. There is no other word for it: Lincoln is evil!”

Suddenly Bennett quit his harangue. The sermon had exhausted him. He breathed heavily. His forehead glistened with sweat. He removed his hat and rubbed his face with a handkerchief. Tate and the slaves wondered whether he was done and did not move. The old man replaced his hat and looked at the porch of his manor, where Lucius now stood. He had come back outside just as Bennett was concluding his outburst.

“Mr. Bennett,” called Lucius. “Dinner is ready for you and Mr. Hughes.”

“Well, Mr. Hughes, shall we venture in?” asked Bennett.

“Let’s do that,” said Hughes. He made eye contact one more time with Portia and winked at her. She looked away. Then Hughes locked arms with Bennett and helped the old man climb the steps of his home. At the top, he turned and spoke. “Mr. Tate, please be good enough to see that my carriage gets off.” He went inside without waiting for a response.

Tate began shouting orders again. His first one went to the huge slave near Portia. “Get a move on, Big Joe. Start unloading that carriage.” The slaves who had halted their work to listen to Bennett returned to their labors. Portia was the only one not to budge. It was almost as if she did not hear Tate. She just stared at the ground.

Lucius saw her. After Bennett and Hughes entered the house, he moved down the steps and touched her chin. She looked up at her grandfather.

“What’s the matter, Portia?”

“It’s nothin’. I just been a little tired.”

“I hope it ain’t more than that.” Lucius slipped into an informal dialect that he tried to avoid around Bennett.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

She took a step toward the house, where she knew she was needed. But Lucius clasped her elbow. She stopped and gave him a questioning look.

“Portia, we need to talk about something very important.”

Lucius glanced quickly in all directions to make sure they could not be overheard. Then he leaned forward. “Meet me by the stables later tonight, after Mr. Bennett has gone to bed.”

A woman seated beside a window was the first to see it. “There’s a secession flag flying over the Virginia capitol!” she said. This prompted a general commotion on the train. Passengers scrambled for a view. Atop a hill sat a white building that was designed by Thomas Jefferson and looked like a Roman temple. Above it flew a red, white, and blue flag, but not the federal one. In the fading daylight, they could see that it had three stripes, with a handful of stars displayed on a blue field.

“The stars and bars!” shouted a voice from somewhere within the train. The formerly subdued car burst into cheers. Had Virginia really seceded? What else could it mean? Just about everybody on board was thrilled at the prospect. This would give the Confederacy a fighting chance. The silence of nervous anticipation soon took over as the train slowed down on a bridge over the James River and then stopped at a depot on the other side of the water.

Within seconds it was confirmed: that very day, Virginia had voted to leave the Union. Strangers who had not spoken to each other on the ride now embraced. Men made martial boasts, and a group of women near the front cried with joy. “We shall have war now,” one of them announced amid her own laughter and tears, “if Lincoln is not a coward.” Her equally ecstatic friend replied, “But he is a coward! He is a coward!”

In the very last row of the car, a man with a hat pulled down to cover his face did not move. Mazorca pretended to sleep.

Corporal William Clark tried to suppress a yawn and failed. It had been a long day, sitting in the foyer of Brown’s Hotel and reading the same newspaper over and over again. It was not even a newspaper he wanted to read. The National Intelligencer was Washington’s leading daily for Southern sympathizers. Clark, a native of Maine, certainly felt no sympathy. He would have preferred not to hide this fact, but his current assignment called on him to wear something other than the blue dress of a federal solider. Ordinary street clothes were his uniform now. The Intelligencer was a part of his disguise as well. It helped him blend in and perform his job, which was to loiter around the lobby of Brown’s, observe the comings and goings of its patrons, and listen to their conversations. If any of them acted strangely or said something interesting, he was under orders to report the information to Colonel Rook.

Like the other hotels along Pennsylvania Avenue, Brown’s was big and ugly. Southerners from around the city congregated in its lobby, and many of those from out of town slept under its roof. Located at Sixth Street, it was convenient to the Capitol and therefore a favorite of Southern politicians. When Congress was in session, dozens of them stayed there. Even when it was not, the hotel’s lobby remained a favorite meeting place and watering hole.

It had become even more popular following a scandal at its main competitor, the National, which sat on the other side of Sixth Street. Four years earlier, around the time of President Buchanan’s inauguration, scores of people fell sick with what became known as “National Hotel disease.” One of them was Buchanan himself, who was bedridden for the first several weeks of his presidency. Many wild-eyed partisans were convinced that National Hotel disease was not a disease at all, but rather a poisoning-a sinister plot, hatched by abolitionists, to contaminate the food at a place frequented by Southerners and their political allies. The real source of the problem was most likely a sewage backup that had flooded the kitchen, but flamboyant conspiracy theories rarely lacked for believers, especially in a Washington divided by regional loyalties and mutual suspicion. Although the National was forced to shut down briefly, it had recently begun to regain its former popularity. For now, however, Brown’s Hotel was on top.

Clark had been coming to Brown’s every day for a week, usually arriving in the early afternoon and staying well into the evening. He suspected that a handful of regulars began to notice him, but they probably regarded him as merely another transient who would vanish just as quickly as he had appeared. None of the hotel’s employees seemed to mind him-each day, he ordered a couple of mint juleps and tipped well enough to keep them happy. The mint juleps, Clark had decided, were the only thing he liked about Brown’s.

Business at the hotel had slowed down recently, as many Southerners had packed their bags and left the city. Yet the lobby remained fairly busy, and Clark had eavesdropped on scores of discussions. Much of the talk was about politics. How would the Lincoln administration respond to the surrender of Sumter? Would more states secede? Conversation often turned toward the fate of Washington itself and the predicament the president would face if Maryland decided to follow Virginia in quitting the Union. And then there was the military question: could the city actually defend itself against an enemy force? The consensus was that Washington would fall, at least without additional troops from the North.

Clark listened to all this chatter, recognizing that most of it was a combination of uninformed speculation and wishful thinking, often fueled by alcohol. Hardly an hour went by without hearing someone condemn Lincoln, but these were expressions of frustration and loathing rather than actual threats. There was talk from time to time about plots against the president. One day it was a plan to kidnap Lincoln. The next it was a proposal to put him on trial in Alabama. Clark understood that in both cases he was hearing rumor and bluster rather than gaining actual information, but he dutifully passed on what he heard to Rook.

After flipping through the National Intelligencer for what seemed like the hundredth time, Clark considered calling it a night. Then he noticed a group of men come into the lobby from their rooms. They had caught his attention a few hours earlier, when they showed up at the hotel covered in dust. Clark had watched them negotiate for several rooms. They aroused his interest because these days the hotel’s clients were much more likely to be checking out than checking in. They were also remarkable for their filth. They looked as if they had gone for weeks without bathing or changing clothes.

Clark had not thought much more about them until they reappeared in the lobby. At first he did not recognize them because they had cleaned up. As they took a table and began ordering bourbons, however, Clark decided to find out what he could about them and their business in Washington. He let the men settle in and finish a first round. Then he rose and moved in the direction of their table.

Before Rook had assigned him to Brown’s, Clark had had no experience at professional eavesdropping. Everything he knew he had learned on his own. The most important rule, he realized almost from the start, was that positioning was everything. It was best to arrive at your location before the talkers arrived at theirs. In this case, Clark had to maneuver into a seat about ten feet away from these newcomers, and with his back turned to them. It was hardly ideal, but it would have to do. He held open his newspaper, though by now he felt as if he could recite it as easily as he could read it.

Clark had trouble hearing the men at first because they did not speak as loudly as he had hoped. As they drained their drinks and ordered more, however, Clark began to pick up bits and pieces of their conversation. From their accents, he could tell they were Southerners. Much of what they said was unexceptional-talk of a long ride behind them, a good night’s sleep in front of them, and a lot of drinking in the meantime. Clark also understood them to be Lincoln haters.

There was nothing remarkable about this fact, though one exchange did interest him. After a period of hushed talk that Clark could not make out, he was convinced that he heard one of the men say, “I can’t wait to see that building crumble.” Clark might not have regarded the comment as meaningful except for what another man, whom he had taken to be the group’s leader, said next: “Shut up! We agreed not to talk about that tonight.”

Silence followed for a few minutes. The men eventually returned to their previous topics of conversation. They sipped their bourbons for another hour or so and then left for their rooms. Clark wasn’t entirely sure what to make of these men, but for the first time in a week he thought he might have something worthwhile to tell Rook at their next meeting.

Lucius listened to Bennett climb the stairs to his bedroom on the second floor. It was a familiar sound, made distinctive by the man’s wooden leg: thud, clack, thud, clack. Lucius had heard it hundreds of times before. He could almost count the number of steps Bennett needed to reach his door down the hall. He waited for the creak of its hinges and then the bang of it shutting.

Bennett had been animated throughout dinner. He denounced the new president in some of the most colorful terms Lucius had ever heard him speak. After about an hour, Bennett was plainly tired. The journey from Charleston was one that had fatigued him even when he was much younger. Lucius ordered the plates cleared quickly. Hughes grasped the hint and announced that he would be going. The pair bid farewell in the foyer, and then Bennett excused Lucius for the night and made his way upstairs.

Lucius was tired too, but he would not let himself rest. Not yet. There was one more thing he needed to do. He poked his head into the dining room to make sure the other house servants were cleaning the table and setting it for breakfast. Satisfied by what he saw, Lucius walked back into the foyer. He stopped at the foot of the steps and listened intently for any sound of Bennett. He waited for several minutes but heard nothing. Then he walked onto the porch and looked down the long lane that led to the road he had ridden from Charleston. To the left he could see the manor’s white clapboard outbuildings: the kitchen, a smithy, chicken coops, and much else besides. It was like a little town, all of it run by slaves-and now closed for the evening.

The silence of the plantation at night was always something Lucius missed when he was in the city. Charleston had its quiet moments too, but it had been full of noise at all hours for more than a week. He was glad to be back here and looked forward to visiting with family and friends he had not seen since the first part of December, when he and Bennett left for the social season. They had wound up staying much longer than expected, thanks to Sumter.

Lucius knew that he had a good life with Bennett-about as good a life as any slave could expect. Not every slave on the plantation actually liked Bennett. Their master was capable of employing all the cruel mechanisms at his disposal to maintain order on the farm. But most of the slaves regarded Bennett as fair, and that was high praise coming from the inside of an institution filled with unfairness. Lucius knew that he and his kind could take nothing for granted, and there was plenty to appreciate about residing on the Bennett homestead. There was a certain prestige attached to working at such a large plantation. Most slaves didn’t actually work on large plantations. They toiled for small farmers who could afford to own only ten or twelve slaves at most. That meant they faced the constant threat of having their families split up when a harvest went poorly or their owner needed a little extra money.

It happened all the time.

Lucius enjoyed special advantages on the plantation. Not only did he have all the normal privileges a house servant held over field hands, but he also shared an old relationship with Bennett. He was possibly the second-most-important person on the plantation, and he might have wielded more influence over Bennett than Tate or any of the other overseers. Lucius was the one slave who never had to endure one of Tate’s tongue-lashings, let alone a real lashing. Tate knew better than to lay a hand on him. His big family was treated well too. His wife had died years ago, but he had two sons and a daughter who still lived here, plus ten grandchildren. His relatives all benefited from a small degree of favoritism.

It was a good life, he thought, perhaps the best he could have and better than he might hope for. That was why it had taken him so long to decide that he was willing to betray his master.

He stepped off the porch and made his way to the lane of buildings on his left. The stables were not in sight of the house-that was one of the reasons he had picked them for his meeting with Portia. He was certain she was already waiting for him and hoped she had not been there for long. More important, he hoped that she had not been noticed.

When he rounded the smithy, he saw that she was not alone. Her back was to the wall as she faced a man towering over her. In the darkness, Lucius could not tell who the man was, except to see that he was white. Neither of them saw Lucius approach.

The man grabbed Portia’s arm, but she yanked herself free. “Stop it!” she said. The man started to pursue her but halted when he saw Portia’s grandfather. Lucius recognized him now: Hughes.

Portia scurried behind her grandfather. Lucius raised his fists. He knew he was no match for the younger man, but perhaps he could hold him off long enough for Portia to get away. He was relieved when Hughes took a step back.

“Good evening, Lucius.”

It was the first time Lucius remembered Hughes ever using his name.

“I was just trying to find a horse to ride, and your granddaughter was here.”

He smiled awkwardly and took another several steps backward. Lucius stood his ground and said nothing.

“It’s getting late, so I think I’ll be going.”

Hughes disappeared into the stable and a moment later emerged on top of a brown stallion. He kept his distance from Lucius and Portia and headed toward the lane in front of the manor. When he reached it, he spurred his horse into a full gallop and rode away.

“Did he hurt you, child?” asked Lucius.

“No, but he was comin’ for me,” said Portia. “I was waitin’ in the stables, just like you told me. I heard somethin’ and thought it was you. But it was him. He grabbed me, and then you showed up just in time.”

“He’s gone now, but we’ll see more of him. He came to Mr. Bennett’s home in the city most every day. It’s like he’s Mr. Bennett’s son.”

“I’m frightened, Grandpa. What if he comes after me again?”

“I don’t wanna scare you, Portia, but you know white folks. They like to have their way with us.”

“Why do we let ’em? There are more of us. We could take over this place and-”

“Stop talkin’ that way right now,” said Lucius. “It wouldn’t work. It would get us killed.”

Lucius put his arms around Portia. If Hughes insisted on having his way with her, there was no guarantee he could stop it. He was not sure talking to Bennett would solve the problem either. That might even make it worse. Bennett’s new affection for Hughes had grown so strong that Lucius thought he might even give Portia away if he knew of the young man’s interest.

These circumstances only added to his resolve. He led Portia into the stables. They sat down on overturned buckets.

“I’m sorry Mr. Hughes found you. If I had known about him lurkin’ around, I wouldn’t have asked you to meet me here. But what I got to say is very important.”

Lucius stood up and wandered around the stables for a minute, sticking his head in the stalls to make sure they were truly alone. Then he returned to Portia.

“You heard of President Lincoln?” he asked.

“Everyone says he’s gonna set us free.”

“That’s what I’ve been hearin’ too.”

“So what about him?”

“I want you to deliver something to him.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. I want you to deliver something to him.”

Portia was confused. “What do you mean?”

Lucius reached inside his pocket and pulled out a picture. He handed it to her. It showed a white man standing in profile. The image was a little blurry, but Portia could make out the man’s features. She noticed the half-missing ear.

“Who’s this?”

“Mr. Bennett and Mr. Hughes call him ‘Mazorca.’ They’ve hired him to kill Abe Lincoln.”

“How do you know?”

“I overheard them talkin’ about it in Charleston, and then this man came by. He’s gonna try to murder the president.”

“And you want me to take this picture all the way to Washington?”

“I would do it myself, Portia, but I’m too old. It’s gotta be someone young.”

“Why me? Why not one of my brothers?”

“I thought of that. But they ain’t as clever as you, and you’re gonna need wits for this. They’d also be missed around here sooner than you. The dogs would be runnin’ on their trail by the middle of the morning. Also, you’re the only one of my grandchildren who’s been to Charleston.”

“Charleston? I thought you wanted me to go to Washington.”

“I know someone in Charleston who can help you get there.”

“Why didn’t you take care of it while you were still there?”

Lucius grimaced. “Maybe that would have been best. At first, I had the picture and wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then I was thinkin’ that maybe I’d just forget about it. Why risk gettin’ caught? Comin’ up to the house today, though, seeing you and all the little ones-it convinced me that something had to be done.” He paused and looked straight at his granddaughter. “You’re the one to do it, Portia.”

“Can I think about it?”

“No. There ain’t no time. That man could be in Washington already. I need to know right now if you’re gonna do it or if I gotta find someone else.”

Portia sat in silence. She stared at the picture, and then her grandfather. She knew he would not ask her to do something so extraordinary unless it really mattered.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t wanna leave this place. There are so many people I’d miss. I might never see any of you again.”

“I know that, Portia. But this is more important than any single person.”

She was not sure what to say. Then she thought about Hughes, and so she said the one thing that came into her head: “Okay.”

“You’ll do it then?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Portia. You’re a brave young woman. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Meet me here tomorrow night, when there’s no more light in the sky. Be ready to go.”