The First Assassin (16 page)

But Rook did not intend to tell Scott about today’s activities. He would not include it in his next briefing at the Winder Building. He would mention other things: troop positions, activity on the bridges, reports from Virginia—anything but this.

Rook knew he could not spend many more days tracking the likes of Davis and Stephens. If he did, Scott would find out somehow. Easley already had recognized him at the Capitol. Rook doubted that he could survive the general’s wrath, not after the explicit order to quit surveillance. He would have to do something quickly to learn more about Davis and Stephens, or to force their hand in some way.

Two blocks from Brown’s, Rook paused. As he had expected, Davis and Stephens walked straight to the hotel. By now, he figured, Clark would be there. He could take over observations for a few minutes.

Meanwhile, Rook examined the storefronts on his side of the Avenue. He was standing almost directly in front of what he was looking for: Brady’s National Photographic Art Gallery. In addition to serving as a studio for Mathew Brady, the up-and-coming photographer, it sold small pictures of famous people. Rook wanted to buy one of the president. Then he would have a chat with Davis and Stephens.

With help from Lucius, Bennett stepped onto the cart. “Greetings,” he said, with outstretched arms and a big smile. The slaves erupted in approval. Their noise energized Bennett, who now laughed with joy at the reception they gave him. “It’s good to be here.” More cheers. Someone in the front replied, “Welcome back, Mr. Bennett.”

“Thank you very much,” said the plantation master. “Yes, it’s good to be back. And it’s good to see you. All of you look wonderful.” There were a few scattered handclaps. “I’m returning a little bit later this spring than I had intended. There is much ado in Charleston this year!” He paused, seeming to expect another outburst, as if he were addressing a convention of slaveholders. Instead, there almost was no response at all.

“Good to be back, yes, good to be back,” he said, almost to himself. Then he recovered. “Shall we see what I’ve brought from the city?”

This met with a better reception—the applause returned, and so did Bennett’s smile. He reached into the box and pulled out something big and brown. He fumbled with it for a moment and then announced, “Trousers!” He looked at the crowd. “Who would like a new pair of trousers?”

A balding man who appeared about forty years old stepped forward. His own pants were shredded at the bottom of their legs. There was a hole at one of his knees. “Willie! It’s good to see you, my boy,” shouted Bennett as he tossed the trousers to him. “Looks like you could use a pair!”

Willie caught the pants. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” he said.

Bennett continued with more trousers and went on to a box of shirts. Then shoes. Then belts. Then hats. There was no method to how he went about it. He just moved on to the next box and reveled in the task of passing out each item individually. Tate tried to make sure the goods went to the slaves who needed them the most, and he had to settle a few small disputes over who received what. Bennett went on interacting with each of the recipients, albeit briefly, and made sure to say a slave’s name every time. Lucius noticed that Bennett missed a few of the names, using one incorrectly or having to be reminded of it. In years past, he had almost never made a mistake.

Bennett was most of the way through the boxes when it happened. He lifted the top off the next one and announced, “Dresses!” He pulled out an attractive maroon garment, and a few of the women stepped forward in anticipation. “Ah, yes,” said Bennett, admiring the piece of clothing. “This one is for Portia! Where’s Portia?”

Lucius looked down at the ground and kicked the dirt.

“Portia? Where are you?”

No one came forward.

“Portia?”

There was now a general commotion among the slaves. When it became clear that Portia was not among them, they threw suspicious glances at one another. Most of them said nothing. A few cupped their hands and whispered into the ears of their neighbors.

“Portia?”

Lucius peered into the crowd, pretending to look for her. Then he caught the eye of Sally, Big Joe’s mother. She was staring right at him. It was a hard look, full of anger. Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head back and forth, almost imperceptibly. At that moment, Lucius knew that she knew.

“Lucius, where is Portia?”

The old slave looked up at his master, still standing on the cart holding the maroon dress.

“I’m sorry, sir, what were you saying?”

“Where’s Portia?”

“My granddaughter?”

Bennett raised his eyebrows. “There’s only one Portia on this farm.”

“Yes. Of course,” said Lucius. “I’m sorry, sir. She told me she wasn’t feeling well this morning and wanted to take a little walk. I should have told you. I forgot to do that. I’m sorry, sir.”

Bennett said nothing for a moment. He just stared at Lucius.

“A little walk this morning? Why isn’t she back?”

“Maybe she took a nap. She didn’t look very well.”

“I see. That’s peculiar. She’s a healthy girl, isn’t she?”

“Yessir. Most of the time anyway.”

“And you forgot about this, even though we spoke about her just a little bit ago?”

“I’m sorry.”

Bennett dropped the maroon dress onto the floor of the cart. “Mr. Tate,” he cried, “please help me down from here.” The overseer hurried to the cart and assisted his boss. “Thank you, Mr. Tate. I am getting a bit tired. Perhaps you will finish this business for me?”

Tate hopped onto the cart and grabbed the maroon dress. He handed it to a woman standing almost right beside him, and then he went back into the box for more.

Bennett walked over to Lucius. “Something isn’t right.”

“I’m sure she’ll be back soon, sir.”

“I’m not talking about Portia.”

Lucius was dumbfounded. This was all beginning to unravel too quickly. What a mistake he had made. What a terrible, dreadful mistake.

“Listen here,” said Bennett. “You’ve been working long hours for me the last few days. I want you to take the rest of the day for yourself. Stay down here and visit with your family. I can get by until morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lucius. “But I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“You will do what I say.”

Bennett spoke with a sharpness Lucius did not often hear directed his way. The tone troubled him. Surrender seemed the only course. “Yessir,” he replied, bowing his head. Lucius felt like an exile. He watched Bennett amble away toward the manor. The distance between them was growing, in more ways than one.

Bennett walked up the path and disappeared from the view of the slaves. He was tired. An activity like this used to take almost nothing out of him. Now he could hardly complete it. He might have gone on, but he was disappointed to hear about Portia. Two of his favorite and most obedient slaves were absent, and Lucius seemed to be the only one who knew anything about where they were. The implications were obvious, but he did not want to think about them. He decided to take a nap and not to worry about the situation until later in the day. Perhaps he had been too irritable with Lucius. A rest might do him good. Surely Portia and Joe would be back by then. This mystery would solve itself soon enough.

He was almost to his house, his mind set squarely on his bed upstairs, when he heard a woman’s voice calling him from behind.

“Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett!”

He turned around. It was Sally, Big Joe’s mother, and she was coming toward him at a jog.

“Yes, Sally?”

“Oh, Mr. Bennett, I’m so glad I can speak to you alone like this,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”

After leaving the White House grounds, Mazorca wandered around the city. He had memorized details from guidebooks, but studying maps and reading descriptions only went so far. Nothing provided as clear a sense of place as being there. His immediate concern was to find somewhere to stay—a base of operations.

He roamed up and down Pennsylvania Avenue and explored its intersecting streets. The south side of the Avenue—the part called Murder Bay—was full of shady saloons and brothels. Things improved to the north, but Mazorca did not want to check in to one of the large hotels that lined the Avenue. He wanted something smaller, a room at a place where he might come and go without having to pass through a crowded lobby. He eventually found what he was looking for at a boardinghouse several blocks north of the Avenue, between Sixth Street and Seventh Street.

The address was 604 H Street. It was a three-story building squeezed between two others. More important, though, was its location near the city center but not so close as to be a part of it. Mazorca watched it for a few minutes from across the street. In the middle of the day, it was impossible to tell how many people it housed—they were probably all at work. But he did see a woman bustling around the first floor. He figured she was the proprietress.

“Good afternoon!” she said when Mazorca walked through the door. “My name is Mary Tabard. Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”

She was a large woman, tall and heavy. A frumpy dress covered her shapeless body. Her pale brown hair was held in a bun. Mazorca guessed that she was fifty years old.

“Yes. I expect to be in the city for a few weeks. I would like a place where I may have a bit of privacy.”

“You will definitely find that here!” said Tabard. Mazorca got the feeling that she would have said the exact opposite if he were to have remarked that he wanted a boardinghouse where all the guests became boon companions. That kind of salesmanship probably would have gone on anywhere, though. Still, he wanted to make a few things clear to her.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, acting relieved. “Sometimes I find that the people running these boardinghouses just suffocate their guests with attention. I can tell already that you aren’t the nosy type.”

“Oh no! Not me!”

“Wonderful. I have some business in the city. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here—but I’m willing to pay for a month’s room and board right now if you can promise me a door with its own lock.”

“I’ve got six rooms total—and exactly the right one for you. Every room has its own key.”

They quickly agreed on a price for a second-story room. A window looked onto H Street. For a name, Mazorca told her that he was called “Mr. Mays.”

Tabard offered to call for his trunk, and then she had the good sense to leave him alone. There was no avoiding that they would become familiar, thought Mazorca as he pulled up the right leg of his trousers and unbuckled a holster from his calf. He assumed his habits would become apparent to some of the other guests as well. They might come to know that he kept odd hours. Mazorca had no intention of showing up for meals, even though he had paid for them. This would cause them to whisper too. Yet Mazorca believed he could keep plenty of secrets from them. He found that preferable to engaging in conversation around a table, where he might have to concoct elaborate cover stories—and perhaps arouse suspicions that would otherwise lie fallow. After a week or so, they would probably come to regard him as a harmless recluse. If they showed too much curiosity, Mazorca had a few options available. This final thought passed through his mind as he removed a small derringer pistol from the holster and inspected it.

His trunk arrived within an hour, and a muscular black man carried it to his room. When he was alone again, Mazorca pushed it under the window. He unlocked the trunk and lifted its lid. The shirts and trousers were still stacked in neat piles. On the left-hand side rested a coiled brown belt, with the buckle facing away from him. A large knife lay beneath it with the cutting edge turned toward him. On the right-hand side was an upside-down book, with the spine facing away. Everything appeared as he had left it. Satisfied by this, he began removing the contents. When he had burrowed about halfway down, he found what he was looking for.

Mazorca reached into the trunk and removed a rifle. It was a Sharps New Model 1859 breechloader—a deadly weapon that could hit a target from a good distance. Right away, he started to clean it.

Rook walked through the front door of Brown’s to find the hotel lobby in the lull of the middle afternoon, between the busy periods of lunch and dinner. About two dozen people milled about, some in conversation, a few reading newspapers, and two or three seeming to do nothing at all. Clark stood near a bar and caught the colonel’s eye. He nodded toward the back of the room, where Davis and Stephens nursed drinks. Rook headed straight for them. He took a seat at their table and gave a big smile. It was not returned.

For a few seconds, Rook just stared at one man and then the other. Davis narrowed his eyes at Rook. He looked menacing. “What can we do for you?” he finally asked in a tone that suggested he did not want to do anything at all for Rook.

“That depends,” replied Rook, affecting a slight Southern drawl.

“Depends on what?”

“It depends on why you’re here.”

“Our affairs are not your affairs.”

“Perhaps not. But then again, perhaps they are. I’m intrigued by the fact a couple of boys like you would show up right now in our nation’s capital.” Rook inflected those last three words with sarcasm. “Where are you from? Alabama? Mississippi?”

Davis and Stephens said nothing. Clark took a seat at a nearby table, with his back to this conversation, and opened a copy of the
National Intelligencer
.

“Well, it hardly matters where you’re from exactly,” continued Rook. “I’m just interested in where you’re from generally. There aren’t many Southerners arriving here nowadays. There are even fewer calling themselves Jeff Davis and Alex Stephens.”

Davis raised an eyebrow. Rook sensed an opening.

“Gentlemen, it does not take a genius to read a hotel registry,” said Rook. He smiled again and took a small palmetto brocade from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Understand something. The number of people who think the way we do dwindles by the hour around here. Guests check out of Brown’s these days, rather than check in. So your arrival is conspicuous. Most of those of us who remain behind are planning to get out soon. In my case, I must attend to some unfinished business.”