The First Assassin (10 page)

“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.”

THURSDAY, APRIL 18, 1861

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

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

“He’ll be here,” replied Springfield.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What can you tell me about Violet Grenier?”

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

“Anything suspicious?”

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what are their names?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No harm done.”

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

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

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

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

“It can wait. Joe, get back to work.”

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

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

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

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

“Yessir, Mr. Tate.”

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

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

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

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

“Just come with me.”

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

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

He looked down at her, then back at Tate.

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

“All right. But we can’t be long.”

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

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

“What’s this about, Portia?”

“I’m leavin’ the plantation tonight.”

“What? You been sold?”

“No. I’m runnin’ off.”

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