The First Assassin (40 page)

“So it would seem.”

“I can’t stay in Washington any longer. Not after what has happened.”

“Before you go anywhere, you have quite a bit of explaining to do.”

“It seems that there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” she said. “This may begin to clear things up.” She held out a piece of paper.

Rook accepted it and realized that he was looking at a letter for the second time: it was the note, dated April 19, that Bennett had sent to Grenier. Springfield had intercepted it, shown it to Rook, and then let it go through to her. Only this time, it included a secret message between the lines of what had seemed an innocent missive:

“Do you know Langston Bennett?” asked Grenier.

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He writes to me on occasion. He wrote this letter, including the words between the lines in a special ink that reveals itself only when it’s heated.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“Because it turns out that Langston has something awful to hide. He has consorted with the worst kind of person imaginable. Mazorca is a trained killer, and somehow I’ve gotten mixed up with him.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You must help me,” she said. She took a step toward the colonel.

Rook suddenly understood how a man could fall for her charms. Her imploring expression, the way she projected vulnerability—it summoned a masculine instinct to protect and defend. Rook had to remind himself that he was dealing with a manipulative seductress.

“First, you must help me,” said Rook. “I want to know where Mazorca is right now.”

“Have you been to the boardinghouse on H Street, where he goes by the name of Mr. Mays?”

“He’s not there.”

This did not seem to surprise her. She smiled confidently. “Then perhaps you can find him on N Street, at the former residence of Robert Fowler.”

“He’s not there either.”

“You’ve been to 1745 N Street?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know to look there?”

“It doesn’t matter. How did you know he might be found there?”

“Because I told him the house was abandoned and that he might seek refuge in it. This was before I discovered his true intentions. I’ve been worried sick ever since I learned that he wants to kill the president.”

“I wasn’t led to believe that you were an admirer of Mr. Lincoln’s.”

“I’m not—horrors, no. But that doesn’t mean I want him shot dead.” A look of exasperation crossed her face. “No lady in my position would associate herself with the schemes of ruffians.”

The tears came again, but Rook ignored them. “It sounds like you know about all of his hideaways,” he said. “Where else could Mazorca be?”

“He must have left Washington.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he knows that he’s been exposed. You’ve been to his safe houses. You’ve been handing out pictures of him all over the city. And look at this letter I just gave you—Bennett is actually telling him to stop his mission.”

“Actually, in the letter he tells you to stop Mazorca. You didn’t try to do that, did you Mrs. Grenier?” Rook did not wait for a response. Instead, he reached into his pocket and removed the envelope he had found on the floor of Mazorca’s room at the boardinghouse. He took out the note, unfolded it, and read: “I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.” Rook returned the note to his pocket. “Here’s what I think: you plotted with Bennett to hire Mazorca to murder the president, Bennett learned that Mazorca was compromised and asked you to call him off, and you told Mazorca to go ahead with the assassination anyway.”

When she did not answer right away, Rook knew that she was having trouble making sense of her own plots. That was a difficulty for liars—the more lies they told, the harder it was to keep track of their deceptions.

“I’m frightened of him, Colonel,” she pleaded.

“According to what I’ve heard, you weren’t too frightened of him when he came to visit you. Nor were you too frightened to write him after receiving the secret message from Bennett.”

“You must believe me. Only recently have I learned the terrible truth about him. I didn’t know where to turn for protection.”

Rook sensed her growing desperation. “How about your friend, Colonel Locke?” he asked. “Or didn’t he drop by when you expected him?”

“Has something happened to Sam?”

“Nothing that he didn’t do to himself.”

“May I see him?”

“No.”

“Then you must help me, Colonel.” She stepped closer.

“What must I do to make you believe me?” She touched him on the chest.

He pushed her arm away. “You must tell the truth. Unfortunately, you don’t appear ready to do that. So I’m going to take you to a place that should make it much easier.”

Grenier looked at him crossly. For the first time since laying eyes on her, Rook knew that she was not trying to charm him. “I suppose you mean the basement of the Treasury,” she hissed.

Rook laughed. “No, Mrs. Grenier. You’ll be staying at the Old Capitol Building—an actual prison.”

Portia clutched the train ticket and studied the line of passenger cars that would take her north.

“Your next ride should be more comfortable than the last one,” said Springfield. “Unless you want to hop inside of this.” With the toe of his boot, he gently tapped a bag resting on the platform.

Portia smiled at him. “You’ve all been very good to me,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

Since her midnight arrival at the White House and the meeting in the Winder Building a few hours later, Portia had stayed out of sight. She was still a fugitive slave—the private property of another person. Under the law, the government had an obligation to return her. It did not matter that she had fled from a regime of cruelty. It did not matter that her owner wanted to murder the president. It did not matter that her enormous personal sacrifice helped to turn the tables against a murderous conspiracy. She was still a fugitive.

The official policy of the Lincoln administration was to respect fugitive-slave laws. During the secession crisis, it wanted to do nothing to antagonize the slaveholding states, especially the handful that remained loyal to the Union. The act of letting Portia go, if it were to become public knowledge, would not sit well.

The solution was not to let it become public knowledge. “Make sure nothing bad happens to her,” Lincoln had said to Rook. The colonel quietly issued orders to a few soldiers whom he knew to be abolitionists. Portia went to a private home where she ate, washed, and rested. Her caretakers prepared a bag of clothes and other necessities, obtained documents that would testify to her status as a free black, and purchased a train ticket to Buffalo. Once there, she would cross into Canada and join a community of escaped slaves who lived beyond the reach of fugitive laws and bounty hunters.

It fell upon Springfield to take Portia to the rail station in Washington. He was also the one to tell her that her grandfather probably was dead—information he had gleaned from the intercepted letter Bennett had sent to Grenier.

“When I went runnin’ from the plantation, I knew that I might not see my family again,” she said. “Then I watched Joe die. Now I’ll have nightmares about what Bennett did to my grandfather. I’ll get over the pain of gettin’ to Washington ’cause that’s just my body hurtin’. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the other parts.”

“You’re a hero, Portia.”

“There are a lotta heroes, Sergeant, and some gave up more than me. Make sure it ain’t in vain.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes. When the conductor ordered passengers aboard, Springfield helped her with the bag and said good-bye. From the platform, he watched the train chug forward. Portia was on her way.

As the caboose left the station, Springfield turned and gazed at the Capitol. Plans called for a female figure—a statue of freedom—eventually to crown its dome. As he walked toward Massachusetts Avenue, Springfield said a quick prayer. He asked that by the time the statue was completed, all of Portia’s people would have their liberty.

Just then, from near the Capitol, Springfield heard a loud commotion. Was it shouting? He took off in a sprint.

“And that’s why we’re going to leave the top off the dome of the Capitol,” said Lincoln, with a big grin on his face. “You men must have proper ventilation!”

The federal soldiers erupted in laughter, cheers, and applause. Rook, Clark, and Grenier stood to the side. The colonel did not like seeing the president in the open, but he could not deny that Lincoln was in fine form. He talked to the troops with an easy camaraderie, demonstrating the political skills that had taken him to the White House.

When the men stationed in the Capitol had heard that Lincoln was coming for an impromptu visit, they streamed out of their temporary homes in the offices and committee rooms of senators and representatives. They assembled on the east side of the building, eager to greet their commander-in-chief. The new arrivals from New York were there, many of them bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep. The soldiers who had come to Washington before them joined in as well.

“Consider yourselves lucky,” said Lincoln when the clamor died down. “Most people have to win an election to take a seat in the House!”

The men howled with delight again.

Grenier scowled. “Can we go now?” she asked. The question sounded like a demand.

Her destination, the new prison in the Old Capitol, was visible across the lawn and on the other side of First Street. Rook had thought about ordering transportation for her, but in the end he decided that they would walk. She did not seem to pose any kind of danger—not with Clark accompanying them on the march down Pennsylvania Avenue.

When they had rounded the Capitol and headed for the prison, they saw hundreds of blue-coated soldiers moving into formation on the eastern front of the building. At first, Rook assumed that they were going to drill. But then a carriage arrived. When it halted, John Hay stepped out, followed by Lincoln. The soldiers cheered him—the heavy majority appeared to be firm Lincoln men. A group of civilians began to gather nearby as well.

With any luck, thought Rook, the threat of Mazorca had passed, just as Grenier had claimed. Nobody had seen him since the day before. He was clearly on the run, with his boardinghouse and refuge raided, his picture distributed, and everyone seemingly on the lookout. Perhaps he had slipped away in the middle of the night. Mazorca could be far from Washington—either gone forever, or possibly biding his time in some local haunt until he believed the city had let down its guard again.

“I cannot listen to this obnoxious man any longer,” snapped Grenier. She turned her back to Lincoln.

“Then don’t listen,” said Rook. “But we aren’t going anywhere for a few minutes.”

The colonel caught the attention of Hay, standing with the president about a hundred feet away. Lincoln’s secretary knew what Rook was thinking. He shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands, palms open wide, to indicate helplessness.

Just then, Springfield appeared. He was almost out of breath.

“I heard this hubbub from the train station—thought it was worth investigating,” said the sergeant.

“Did you ship the package?” asked Rook.

“Yes. The train left a few minutes ago.”

“Good. Stay here with our friend,” he said, tipping his head toward Grenier. “I want to mingle a bit.”

The crowd was growing larger. Rook estimated that a thousand people gathered in Lincoln’s vicinity, and more kept arriving from the homes and stores nearby. A group of soldiers—a band carrying musical instruments—organized themselves near the steps. Rook walked toward them and climbed up for a better view.

Below, on the lawn, an officer from New York approached Lincoln. They exchanged a few words, and the president nodded.

“I’ve been asked to swear you in,” said Lincoln, speaking as loudly as he could manage. “Would you like that?”

The soldiers burst out in approval. In New York, they had been sworn in for thirty days of service. But that was not long enough. Rook knew that one of their first orders of business in Washington was to swear in for ninety days.

“Before I do, allow me a few words,” said Lincoln. Shushes and calls for quiet rippled through the crowd. Suddenly the racket in front of the Capitol dropped to almost total silence. “I have desired as sincerely as any man that our present difficulties might be settled without the shedding of blood,” said Lincoln. “I will not say that all hope is yet gone, but if the alternative is presented whether the Union is to be broken into fragments and the liberties of the people lost or blood be shed, then I know you will stand for Union.”

The throng roared its approval. The leaders of the Seventh Regiment broke their men into companies. Taking direction from Lincoln, they raised their right hands and swore in the name of God to be good soldiers. When it was done, they cheered again and congratulated each other. The band broke into “Hail Columbia,” and many of the men sang the words. Their voices swelled when they hit the chorus:

As Rook hummed the tune, he watched the commander of the Seventh Regiment of New York lead Lincoln toward the Capitol. Apparently they were going to walk its halls. Their progress was slow, as soldiers and civilians approached Lincoln to shake his hand. The officer tried to fend them off, but Lincoln kept obliging. The president seemed utterly at ease. Rook noticed that rather than clenching hands, Lincoln kept grasping men at their fingers. The colonel realized that it was probably the only thing the president could do to prevent his hand from becoming sore from all of the squeezing.