The First Assassin (5 page)

The image made Hughes cringe. “You might have spared me that detail,” he said, shifting around in his chair. He noticed the pleasure Bennett seemed to take from his discomfort.

“Today, of course, I’m much less interested in the events occurring outside our borders than those occurring within them,” said Bennett.

So now it was down to business, thought Hughes. Bennett seemed uncommonly serious this evening.

“Lucius, would you please excuse us? I’ll call if we need anything.”

The slave left and closed the door. Alone in the room with Bennett now, Hughes stood up. He found that pacing made it easier to think.

“Tucker, do you seriously think we can win a war against the North?”

Bennett knew the answer to that question, thought Hughes. They had debated it plenty of times before. It was a rather famous disagreement between the two of them. Why raise it now?

“My opinion on that has not changed, Langston. The South may prevail. We have better leaders, and we will fight a defensive war in protection of our homes and our ways. That gives us a significant advantage.”

“Your ideas on that are thoughtful,” said Bennett, “even though they are wrong.” He paused to let that comment sink in. “Open warfare is exactly the wrong approach. The men now aiming cannons across the water at Fort Sumter are hotheads. They are ready to fire, and they have not given any consideration to whether Virginia will secede, whether they can secure agreements with the border states, or whether they can make treaties with foreign nations. They will act, then think—rather than think, then act.”

Hughes had heard this before too. Their discussion this evening was like attending a play he had already seen several times. He knew how it would end. Yet Bennett seemed to want to go over the same ground another time. When would the old man ever broach the subject of inheritance? He had no heir—not even a relative. Everybody in Charleston thought he would name Hughes as the main beneficiary of his estate. But so far, he had not. Hughes had hoped tonight might be the night. Then again, this hope seized him every time Bennett summoned him for a visit. Time to return to the script, he thought. I have a part to play.

“Perhaps this business with Sumter is a welcome development,” said Hughes. As he strolled around the room, he spotted some correspondence sitting on a table near Bennett. He immediately wanted to read it. “We’ve known for years that preserving our institutions may require war. Better to strike a blow for our freedom and our culture now than to curl up and let Lincoln destroy them over time and on his terms.”

Bennett shook his head. “That fight cannot be won against the Northerners, at least not in the way you imagine. They have men, money, and material on their side. They are manufacturers. They have a navy. We are an agricultural people. We have rice, sugar, and cotton. It is not enough to win a war. We must consider other options. I want to do something for South Carolina, Tucker—one last thing before my days are done. I want to strike one final blow for the whole South.”

This is new, thought Hughes. Bennett had not hinted at a specific plan of action before. “You puzzle me,” said Hughes, stepping leisurely to the table. Bennett’s back was to him. “One moment you sound like a conciliator who wants to avoid war. The next you say you want to do something for the South. I hope that what you intend to do is something besides giving up.”

“I will never surrender,” sputtered Bennett. “There can be no compromise on the slavery question. We cannot live under politicians whose idea of democracy is that when three people get together, the two shall rule the one. Our institutions must survive. It is our right that they do. And therefore, we must aim directly at the heart of Black Republican rule.”

Hughes was struck by the old man’s passion, but his mind was on the table. “War must be considered,” he said, angling for a view of the papers. “If we show the North we are willing to fight, it may acquiesce.”

Making sure Bennett could not see him, Hughes leaned over the table. A letter on top read, “
Su español es bueno, pero mi inglés es mejor
. Your offer is generous. I would like to meet in person to discuss it. Expect me in Charleston by the middle part of April.” The letter was not signed.

Hughes could not read the first part, but he knew it was written in Spanish. Did Bennett have some unmentioned relation in Cuba? The thought worried him.

“But it may come to bloodshed,” said Bennett.

“Yes, it may,” said Hughes, returning to his seat. “And if it does, we will have to fight. Even if we lose, we may preserve our honor. But I think we may very well win a war.”

Bennett said nothing for a moment. He appeared to be collecting his thoughts. Then he stared directly at Hughes and narrowed his eyes. “Let’s talk of your inheritance, and how it may help us achieve our goals.”

Hughes slanted forward. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want a war.”

“I know that.”

“I want a death. I want a murder.”

Hughes sat up sharply. “What are you talking about, Langston?”

“I’m talking about Abraham Lincoln.”

In the darkened hallway outside, Lucius pulled his ear back from the door. The sound coming from within was muffled, but Lucius was certain of what he had heard. Without making a sound, he walked to the steps and crept downstairs. He was glad Nelly was not waiting for him.

FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 1861

Rook’s head jerked up as his horse came to a halt outside the Winder Building on Seventeenth Street. The animal seemed to know instinctively where to stop. It had become used to the routine since the inauguration: a daily walk around Washington’s rutted roads and cratered streets so that Rook could inspect the bridges leading into the city and the pickets that guarded the roads to the north. Rook had become used to it as well, so much, in fact, that he had nodded off a couple of times between his last stop, at the Chain Bridge out past Georgetown, and his destination here.

He hopped down from his mount and yawned. It was dusk when he had set out, and since then the sun had gone down completely. Lights glowed from inside the building in front of him. An attendant materialized to take the horse.

“I expect to be here a little while,” said Rook. He gazed across the street at the War Department and the Navy Department buildings. They were small—perfectly adequate for peacetime, thought Rook. Beyond them, he saw the president’s mansion. There were lights on over there too.

“Colonel!”

The call came from across the street. A figure waved to him and approached. When he got closer, Rook recognized John Hay, a personal secretary to the president.

“Good evening,” said Hay, holding out his hand. Rook grasped it. “How are things with you?”

Rook had met Hay only a couple of times previously and never at any length. They certainly were not intimates. He was struck by the young man’s familiarity—he behaved as if he and Rook were old friends.

“I’m well, but a bit tired,” said Rook.

“Aren’t we all?” laughed Hay, who certainly did not look the way Rook felt.

Rook didn’t know much about Hay. He had come with Lincoln from Illinois, and he actually lived in the White House so he could be near the president at all times. He was perhaps twenty-two years old.

“Maybe I’ll get some sleep after my meeting with General Scott,” said Rook. “He wants updates every day on Washington’s military preparedness.”

“Isn’t it past his bedtime?”

Rook smiled. Everybody knew Scott’s reputation.

“The general may not be in the springtime of his career,” said Rook, “but he’s a hard worker who demands a lot from the officers beneath him.”

“Let’s hope your meetings are more productive than mine. I spent half of my day dealing with government accountants. In the White House budget, there’s only one slot for a secretary to the president. But there are two of us.”

“Sounds like a headache.”

“It’s a battle between the president’s will and an administrative won’t,” said Hay. The line seemed well rehearsed. Rook got the feeling that he was not the first person to hear it.

“Are they trying to make you quit?” asked the colonel.

“Not at all. They’re giving me a clerk’s position in the pension office and assigning me to the president’s staff.”

“Isn’t that the same thing as putting you in the White House?”

“Absolutely. But on paper there will still be just one secretary. It seems that in Washington, the purpose of paperwork is to obscure reality. At least that’s my lesson for today.” Hay rolled his eyes for effect.

Rook chuckled. He found himself liking the young man.

“I’ve detained you long enough, Colonel,” said Hay, starting to go back across Seventeenth Street. “If you ever need something, you know where to find me—not in the place where my paperwork says I should be!”

Rook watched him go. Then he turned and walked into the Winder Building. The gas lighting and marbled wallpaper were rarities in Washington. It was one of the most attractive interiors in the city. Rook immediately smelled dinner. Scott often ate at this hour. From the room outside Scott’s door, Rook inhaled the aroma of roasted chicken. He was one of the few people allowed to walk in on the general unannounced, though it was hardly a surprise for him to show up right now, when he was expected.

“Hello, Locke,” he said to Scott’s personal secretary, Colonel Samuel Locke, who was sitting at a desk by the entrance to Scott’s room.

“Good evening, Colonel,” said Locke, who did not look up from the newspaper he was reading.

“Anything in the news?”

“The general is waiting for you.”

Rook did not like Locke. The man was a dandy—the kind of officer who was always looking at a mirror to make sure his buttons were shiny and his hair was just so. Rook could not imagine Locke in the field, doing the rugged work soldiers were meant to do. Yet the modern army needed all kinds, including paper pushers whose place was at a desk rather than in a saddle.

What really bothered him about Locke was the rudeness. Why was it so difficult for him to engage in small talk for a minute or two? Rook knew the answer: he had the job that Locke had wanted for himself, the responsibility for Washington’s defenses and the president’s security. Rook could not actually imagine Locke in that role. Apparently Scott could not imagine it either, because he was the one who had passed over Locke in favor of Rook. For his part, Locke seemed able to forgive the general and chose instead to channel his anger toward Rook and create a rivalry where none, at least in Rook’s opinion, needed to exist. Rook found the behavior both baffling and irritating. At least Locke made no attempt to hide his resentment. The worst enemies were the ones who pretended to be friends.

On the other side of the door, Rook found Lieutenant General Winfield Scott removing a napkin from his collar. The old man was still chewing but wiped his mouth and took a sip of wine from a glass that was almost empty. A plate piled high with bones sat before him. It appeared as though he had just devoured an entire chicken all by himself, which didn’t surprise Rook at all. The man’s meals were always feasts.

The general’s face was bloated and his body, enormous. It was hard to believe this fat giant was the same commander who had cut such an impressive figure in Mexico. Scott always had been a big man—he was six foot four and one-quarter inches tall, as he often reminded people. Yet the years were not kind to him. He was now so large that he could not mount a horse, and his carriage had to be specially designed to ride low to the ground because the general was not able to lift himself into anything higher. That little mountain of chicken bones on his plate, thought Rook, was not going to make it any easier.

“It is good to see you, Colonel,” said Scott, swallowing his last bite. “Let me get this cleared.”

He picked up a small bell on his table and rang it. A black valet shuttled into the room and began to remove the dishes and tablecloth. He was about to take the wine glass when Scott reached for it and gave him a hard look before pouring the last contents down his throat. Scott wiped his mouth again and placed the glass and napkin back on the table. The valet snatched them up and was gone in a flash.

“Please, sir, have a seat,” said Scott, gesturing to where Rook always sat.

The general pushed his own chair away from the table. Grunting as he struggled against his own bulk, he succeeded in moving it less than a foot. Rook had seen this before too, and once he had offered to help Scott position himself in his seat. The old man would have none of it. Attendants had surrounded him for years, and accommodations a more vigorous man would not have needed now filled up much of his life. Even the president occasionally would come down from his office in the White House and meet the general in the driveway so that Scott would not have to strain himself getting in and out of his carriage. Even so, there were a few things Scott insisted on doing without assistance. Making himself comfortable in a chair was one of them.

When Scott finally settled in, he took a deep breath. The effort had exhausted him. At last he looked at the colonel.

“What is the latest?” asked Scott.

Rook delivered his standard report. “There continues to be civilian movement out of the city,” he said. That morning, two families had departed the city by the Long Bridge, both bound across the Potomac River for Richmond. Their carts were stuffed with their belongings, indicating that they did not intend to return for quite some time, if at all. As was the custom, the soldiers guarding the bridge questioned them.

“One fellow didn’t want to talk,” said Rook. “The other one admitted that he wanted to get out of the city because he did not support the new administration and the types of people it has brought here.”

“This is typical.”

“Yes, an ordinary day at the bridges.”

“Is there more, Colonel?”

“I lost another lieutenant today,” Rook said.

Civilians were not the only ones turning their backs on Washington during the secession crisis. Officers were leaving as well, resigning their commissions and heading home. Everybody in the chain of command knew about this problem, including Scott. The army was full of Southerners, especially in the officer corps. The drain was beginning to take its toll.

“Where is this former lieutenant going?” asked Scott.

“North Carolina.”

“That state has not dissolved its ties to us.” For a moment, Scott was silent. Then he waved his hand dismissively. “He was only a lieutenant,” he said. “You will not miss him.”

That was true enough, though the problem was far bigger than any single individual. Collectively, these losses were starting to affect manpower and morale. Every day seemed to bring a new desertion. By doing nothing in response, the army appeared content to let its men slip away at their leisure and join the ranks of a rebel movement.

Rook worried that these resignations were not even the biggest problem. What if some of the officers who remained in uniform were actually disloyal? And what if they stayed behind because they wanted to become subversives? He recalled how he had ordered a captain to patrol a wing of the Capitol the night before Lincoln delivered his inaugural address. With all the rumors about the president’s safety, Rook wanted to be sure that the building was free of people who did not actually belong there. The captain seemed to do his duty well enough, and there was, of course, no trouble on the big day. Yet the man was gone within a week, after deciding that he owed more allegiance to Alabama than to the federal government. It made Rook realize that the army was perhaps vulnerable in ways that nobody had anticipated.

“I’m beginning to wonder whom we can trust,” said the colonel. It was a risky thing to say. Scott was from Virginia, and there was talk among some Northerners that even he could not be trusted. Rook certainly did not want to make any such implication.

“If we acted against these men, the consequences could be terrible,” said Scott. “It might strain relations between North and South even further—”

Rook could not stop himself from raising his eyebrows in disbelief. He immediately regretted it. The expression had caused Scott to stop talking, as if he had been interrupted. The general did not like being interrupted.

“Colonel?”

“Seven states are already gone, sir,” said Rook. “They have seceded. How much more strained could relations become?”

“There is no fighting.”

“Not yet. But if you weren’t worried about the possibility, you never would have brought me into your service.”

Before the general could reply, Locke burst into the room. He made straight for Scott with a piece of paper in his hand.

“This just arrived from the telegraph office,” he said. “It requires immediate attention.”

He handed the paper to Scott, who held it at an angle to catch the light of a lamp. He grimaced. “It’s from Crittenden,” he said. The contents clearly irritated him. “Bring me pen, ink, and paper!”

John Crittenden was one of the country’s best-known politicians. He had served as attorney general for three different presidents. Most recently he had been a senator from Kentucky, a state that permitted slavery but which had not seceded. It would not secede if Crittenden had anything to do with it: he was a strong unionist.

Locke scampered out of the room and came back with pen, ink, and paper. He handed them to the general, who did not move his chair to the table. That would have required an enormous effort. Instead, he leaned way over to his left and scribbled a message.

He waved the paper in the air to help the ink dry and looked at Rook. “Colonel, we have fallen upon evil days. To think that a man who has known me so long and so well as my old friend Crittenden should find it necessary to send me a telegraphic dispatch to which I have to make such an answer as this.” He thrust the paper in Rook’s direction. Rook rose for it. He knew the script well, as he had taken written orders from the general many times previously. Its message was typical of Scott, concise and blunt: “To the Hon. John Jordan Crittenden. I have not changed. I have not thought of changing. I am for the Union. Winfield Scott.”

Rook handed the note back to the general, who gave it to Locke. “It seems these days as though no man has entire confidence in any other man. Crittenden is my old friend!” said Scott, shaking his head. “Locke, get this message off promptly.”

Locke closed the door behind him. A hush descended on the room. What had just transpired obviously disturbed the general. All loyalties were in doubt, even those belonging to a national hero like Scott.

“Was there anything else, Colonel?” Apparently the general did not want to discuss the loyalty or disloyalty of his subordinates. That was all right with Rook. Something else weighed more heavily on his mind than the departures.

He leaned forward. “You’ve heard the rumors about the president. They haven’t let up. It is the talk of the city. Mr. Lincoln’s life remains in danger, no less than it did on his inauguration day.”

Scott frowned. “Of course, I’ve heard some rumors. Who hasn’t? The air is hot with them.”

“Do you know what today is, General?”

Scott did not like being questioned. He scowled but answered anyway. “Friday.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s March fifteenth.”

“Yes?”

“The Ides of March.”

“Are you giving me a history lesson, Colonel? I know my history. Today is the date of the death of Julius Caesar.”

“And the anniversary of the most famous political assassination in world history.”