The First Assassin (21 page)

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

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

“Did you see the cargo?”

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

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

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

“Shouldn’t we get some help?”

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

“Very well.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you for Union?” whispered Rook.

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

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

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

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

“A man’s life may be at stake.”

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

“Is there anybody else on board?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the cargo?” asked Rook.

“I don’t know,” said Clark.

“Let’s find out.”

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

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

“We’re not done yet,” said Rook.

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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