The First Assassin (11 page)

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

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

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

“I want you to come with me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

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

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

“I don’t know—”

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

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

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

“What?”

“We have to help him.”

“Can I see the picture?”

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

“Everybody says Lincoln is gonna free us.”

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

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

“Mama! What’re you doing?”

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

“Mama, we’re just talkin’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did he resign his commission?” asked Rook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in your office, sir.”

“And where is that?”

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

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

“I suspect that I do not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not this subject again,” sputtered Locke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephens chuckled. “Yeah, me too!”

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

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

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

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