The First Assassin (23 page)

As they passed by, about fifty feet from her doorway, none of them appeared to see her. The light from inside her house was weak and apparently did not draw their attention. Besides, they were preoccupied with their prisoners. When one of them glanced up Sixteenth Street, she recognized his face. It was Colonel Rook. She doubted he would involve himself with criminals who had committed petty offenses.

A disturbing thought entered her mind. She looked at the prisoners more carefully, wondering who they might be. Was Mazorca among them? It was difficult to see much in the blackness, and now their backs were turned to her as they crossed Sixteenth Street and continued along H Street. She could not rule it out. As they passed St. John’s Church, Grenier hustled across the street and into the church’s courtyard.

A bush snagged her petticoat. If she had not been trying to move in silence, she might have cursed it. Instead, she quickly pulled it loose, not bothering to inspect the damage, and darted between the columns on the front of the church. Peering around the side, she saw the entourage of soldiers and prisoners about a block ahead of her. As they turned right on Fifteenth Street, she raced into Lafayette Park. If people had seen her running, they might have thought she was fleeing an assailant. Yet the park was empty. Nobody saw her as she flitted through, emerging on the corner by the State Department, a little brick edifice across the street from where she now stood.

From this vantage point, on the short strip of Pennsylvania Avenue that ran between the White House and Lafayette Park, Grenier could see a portion of Fifteenth Street. The soldiers had not yet come around the block, but she could hear their footsteps. She hurried across the Avenue, behind the State Department. Its windows were dark. She sidled along its exterior, turning a corner and moving forward until she came to a spot where she could crouch down and hide as the group came into view.

Rook was in front. She could tell right away that Mazorca was not among the prisoners who followed him. They were too big, too small, or the hair was wrong. She breathed a sigh of relief and scolded herself for embarking on a pointless excursion. Had she really gone this far in order to disprove that Mazorca was captured? If so, it would suggest that she was not thinking straight about him. That was a problem.

She did not budge from her spot because the men were still coming toward her. As they approached, she was able to study their faces—and she recognized Davis. What a fool, she thought. His plans were larger than his abilities. She knew it almost from the moment she had met him. Now he was caught. Stephens was with him as well. She wished that they had not come to her house. It was a shame that they had even come to Washington at all.

In a moment, the men passed by. She kept watching them, expecting a turn to the left, away from the barricaded Treasury Department. But when they turned, they actually went through the barricades and into the building.

For several minutes, Grenier did not move. She had not harbored high hopes for Davis and Stephens. She was disappointed in them as well as for them. Even worse than the disappointment, however, was the confusion: why would Rook take prisoners to any place besides the new prison in the Old Capitol?

She went back to her house, scribbled a few notes, and tried to sleep. But her mind was racing.

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.