The First Assassin (6 page)

Scott rolled his eyes. “Your dramatics do not transform fable into fact. Rumors are not the same thing as evidence.”

“If we cannot act on well-founded suspicion, we won’t ever collect evidence—and we may fail our duties,” said Rook.

“We have no hard proof that Virginia is about to march an army into the federal capital, and yet we’ve ordered a guard at all the bridges leading into the city. My men at these posts are under specific instruction to watch for organized movement across the river and to warn us the moment they spy anything suspicious. We’ve set up pickets along the roads into Maryland for similar reasons. We don’t know whether there will be any trouble from Virginia or Maryland. We merely suspect that trouble may come—and so we take precautions.”

“These precautions are simple and they cost us nothing,” said Scott. “But the rumors of threats against the president’s life are little more than idle chatter in an anxious city. I discount all of it. The time to strike against the president directly would have been before or during the inauguration. It would have created panic and confusion here in Washington and throughout the Northern states.” This was the conventional wisdom among those who thought seriously about the security of the president: an assassination now, or even an attempt to assassinate, would create many problems—but most likely would strengthen the resolve of the Northern states and make them less inclined to compromise.

“Any student of history knows that assassinations rarely achieve their political ends,” continued Scott. “They almost always backfire. Caesar is a perfect example of this. His killers wanted to preserve republican government, but they wound up with an emperor. I do believe we crossed an important threshold when Lincoln took the oath. You might even say we crossed the Rubicon.” Scott smirked at his own cleverness.

“The president is hated in too many quarters. All it would take is someone willing to—”

“Colonel,” interrupted Scott, “the other thing you must realize is that no American president has ever been assassinated. I know of only one attempt that’s ever been made. You are perhaps a bit too young to remember it yourself. It was about twenty-five years ago, during the second term of Andrew Jackson.” Scott spit out the name with distaste, as Jackson was an old nemesis. He described how Jackson was walking through the rotunda of the Capitol when a madman—a house painter called Richard Lawrence—leaped out from behind a pillar and pointed his pistol at the president. He pulled the trigger, but the gun failed to fire. So Lawrence reached for a second one, aimed it at Jackson, and pulled its trigger. Again, the gun did not go off. By this point onlookers were able to grapple with Lawrence and disarm him. Investigators later determined that his powder and bullets had fallen out of his guns when they were still in his pockets.

As he told the story, Scott was animated, but then he sighed. “Jackson accused his political enemies of plotting against him. That was typical. He tried to turn this astonishing event to his political advantage. In fact, there were those who thought the whole episode was a stunt, manufactured by Jackson for the specific purpose of letting him rail at his opponents.” Scott obviously believed Jackson was perfectly capable of such behavior. “But it turned out that Lawrence was simply deranged. Francis Scott Key prosecuted the case, and the jury decided Lawrence was a lunatic not responsible for his own actions. He was confined to an asylum.”

Rook had heard of the incident, but not in such detail.

“If Lawrence had not been crazy,” the general went on, “he would not have tried to kill the president. This is the great problem with assassinations. The killing is not the hard part. A half-wit like Lawrence might have pulled it off, but then only a half-wit would have made Lawrence’s mistake. The tricky part isn’t pulling the trigger. It’s getting away. No man except a fanatic or an idiot would try to murder the president without an escape plan, and the president is almost never alone. Evading capture would be close to impossible. The man who might succeed probably would be smart enough not to try.”

Scott folded his arms at the conclusion of this little speech. Rook sensed that the old man did not want to be challenged.

“I have a modest proposal,” Rook said at last.

“And what is it?” The general sounded skeptical.

“There are men like Lawrence out there. There are also men who have Lawrence’s murderous intentions, and most of them aren’t crazy. Therefore, we must increase the number of men assigned to protect the life of the president—”

“Absolutely not!” Scott was almost shouting.

“Just a handful of men, sir—surely we can spare a few from their posts at the Armory and Treasury—”

“That’s not the issue,” said Scott, lowering his voice but remaining stern. “I am sure we could spare them. The problem is that they aren’t wanted where you would like to put them. The president is completely opposed to a plan along these lines. He won’t tolerate more security than he already has.”

“Sir, the current security arrangement is not adequate. The president’s house is open to the public at all hours. It would not take much for a lone gunman to slip inside without arousing suspicion. Assigning a few additional men would harm nothing and help much. I’m also concerned about the president’s protection when he leaves the grounds of his mansion. He is sometimes with only one or two men. At these moments, he is especially vulnerable. We really should demand more security.”

“Are you done?” asked Scott with impatience.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you’ve gotten it off your chest, Colonel. And the answer is still no.”

“Might he at least consider keeping himself out of view? Perhaps he could limit his public appearances.”

“The answer is no, Colonel.”

“Doesn’t he understand the danger?”

Scott raised his palm, signaling Rook to silence.

“Colonel, your misgivings are noted. They are also rejected. You know how much criticism the president received for his passage through Baltimore, even from some of his closest friends. It was an awful start to his time in Washington. And then the inaugural security was very tight. Some believed it was too tight. Nobody failed to notice it. You did a superb job that day. I commend you for it. Yet our actions have their critics. They thought the security was overwhelming, even anti-democratic. I know the president himself shares this view. He has told me as much. We are fortunate that he has accepted the guards who surround him now. It is my concern that one day he will order them away. We should be grateful that he doesn’t walk though the city in the dark by himself. I’m learning that he can be a stubborn man—he is probably capable of going for a midnight stroll in Murder Bay just to prove a point. I appreciate your concerns, Colonel, but you must put these notions out of your head.”

There was no getting through, Rook realized. It sounded as though Scott possibly agreed with him at some level. That was not the same thing as the president’s agreeing with them, of course. Rook understood that he was supposed to abide by the orders of his superior officer, and now he realized that Scott was simply following orders given by the one man in the whole country who could tell the general what to do.

“Is there anything else, Colonel?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow. Good night.”

THURSDAY, APRIL 11, 1861

Bennett and Hughes sat unsmiling in chairs just a few feet apart. They were dressed almost exactly alike, both in dark frock coats and black gloves. Each rested a cane against one knee and propped a hat on the other. They looked ready to go somewhere, but they sat perfectly still.

“Steady…steady…”

The men fixed their eyes on the same point across the room. Hughes appeared at ease, relaxing in his chair as if he could sit there all day.

“Steady…steady…”

Bennett, however, was clearly perturbed. For him, sitting motionless required total concentration. His face slowly twisted into a frown. His wide-open eyes blazed with intensity. He seemed ready to burst.

“Steady…steady…done!”

A man on the other side of the room gently placed a cap on a small tube projecting out of a wooden box. The contraption stood on three legs about five feet off the ground.

Bennett bolted up. He let out a loud hack and collapsed back into the chair, exhausted from the effort.

“We’re almost done, Langston. Only one more picture, I promise,” said Hughes.

“Let’s see how this one came out,” said the photographer, a wiry man with curly blond hair. His sleeves were rolled up, and silver stains covered an apron he wore over his shirt. He turned to his subjects and rubbed his hands together. “Would you like to see how the process works, Mr. Bennett?”

The old man grunted. “No thank you, Mr. Leery. I would not even begin to understand it.”

“Very well.”

The photographer removed a slide from the camera. It was housed in a protective case, out of the light. “Hold this, Marcus,” he said to his assistant, a light-skinned black boy who looked about twelve years old. Then Leery disappeared into a large box covered by a red curtain.

“Where did you find this man?” asked Bennett.

“He opened a shop on King Street last fall. He came down here from New York City.”

“I could tell that just by listening to him talk. I don’t trust people with a Yankee accent.”

“Many of the New Yorkers are on our side in this, Langston. You know that. They depend on us for trade. The whole merchant class there needs us. Besides, photography has nothing to do with the crisis. It’s just a diversion. You don’t need to be so grumpy about it.”

“I am restless. Our days are filled with waiting.”

Hughes could not disagree. He was coming to Bennett’s house every afternoon now. They spent long hours together, sharing meals, talking, and reading in each other’s presence. Mostly they just waited. Hughes thought the novelty of a photo session would help them pass the time, especially after Bennett had remarked a month back about never having had his picture taken. Leery performed most of his work in his studio, but Hughes had convinced him to visit Bennett’s home—it was the only way he could get the old man to consent to having his photograph taken. Yet Hughes also understood that the exercise was more than a diversion. Sitting for a portrait with Bennett made him feel like an heir.

Hughes stood up and looked out the window. There were a few ships in the harbor. Perhaps one of these will end the waiting, he thought.

“They’ll demand surrender soon,” said Bennett.

Hughes moved his gaze toward the little fort just barely visible in the distance. “Yes. I suppose they will.”

“If Sumter falls, war will come.”

“I agree.”

“But it won’t change our goal.”

Hughes took his eyes off the fort and looked at Bennett, still seated in the chair. He knew the old man was determined in just about everything he did, but he had not known him to be as determined as he was now. On the day Bennett told him about the plan, he had also said he expected it to be the final important act of his life.

Suddenly Leery called out from his portable darkroom. “We’re done,” he announced. The photographer stepped out, squinted briefly, and studied the picture. He held up a glass plate and looked at Bennett. “This is called the negative,” said Leery. “It’s a reversed image. Black is white and white is black.”

“That’s what we’re trying to stop,” muttered Bennett.

Hughes smiled at the crack as he went to see the picture. It was well focused. The lines were sharp. It was an excellent photograph from a technical perspective. The only problem was Bennett. He was scowling. In negative, he looked like a fiend from the pits of hell.

“Langston,” said Hughes with a sigh, “let’s try it once more.”

“We have done this twice already,” complained Bennett, still sitting in his chair across the room. “I am really quite fatigued.”

“Looking pleasant really takes no effort, Langston. This will be the last one. I promise.”

Bennett sneered. “No more after this.”

“Prepare the next picture, Mr. Leery,” said Hughes triumphantly. “This time, I would like to observe.”

“Certainly, Mr. Hughes.”

They squeezed into the portable darkroom, a small space when only one person occupied it. For a moment they just stood there. Then Leery’s arm reached out of the curtains.

“Marcus!” The boy put a clean glass plate in his hand. Leery pulled it into the darkroom. He seized a vial and uncorked it.

“This is the collodion syrup.” He tipped the vial and poured its contents onto the glass, then twirled the plate in his hand until a thin coating covered the whole surface. “Now we let this dry,” Leery said, setting the plate down on a small shelf. “It will take a few minutes.”

When the two men emerged from the darkroom, Bennett was still sitting in his chair. Leery gestured to his assistant. “Drop the plate into the silver nitrate when it’s ready.” Marcus disappeared behind the curtains.

“This can be a dirty line of work,” said Leery, pointing to the smears and streaks on his apron. “I let Marcus handle some of the grubbier chores. He’s a smart boy. If he were a little older, he could probably run this whole business for me.”

“And if he weren’t a slave boy,” sniped Bennett.

“Actually, he’s not a slave boy,” said Leery. “He’s free and lives on Nassau Street, in the free black neighborhood. I employ him.”

“Really,” said Bennett. His disapproval was obvious.

Leery either did not catch the reproach or he ignored it.

“After Marcus pulls the glass from the silver nitrate, we’ll have to take our picture while the plate is wet,” he said. “The air is moist today, so we probably have about ten minutes to get the job done—plenty of time. Now let me show you—”

The sound of a short knock interrupted him. The door to the room opened, and Lucius walked in. He stepped gingerly around the photographic equipment spread across the floor and approached Bennett.

“There is a visitor, sir,” announced Lucius. “He won’t give his name, but he says he’s from Cuba. He insists that you know him.”

Bennett looked at Hughes. “Perhaps our wait is over,” he said. Then he turned his attention to Lucius. “Give us a moment to arrange ourselves.”

The old slave exited the room. Bennett rose to his feet and looked at the photographic equipment. “Mr. Leery, you will have to excuse us. Mr. Hughes and I have a pressing appointment. You must leave immediately.”

“I understand.” The photographer turned to his assistant, but Marcus was already cleaning up. He spoke again to Bennett. “Shall I make prints of these photos for you right away? I can drop them off here, and you can review them later today at your convenience.”

“That would be fine, Mr. Leery. See that Lucius gets them.”

As Leery and Marcus scrambled to pack and go, Bennett put his arm around Hughes. “I will do the negotiating with our guest,” he said in a hushed voice. “You are here primarily as a witness.”

“I know. We’ve gone over this,” said Hughes.

The photographers did not need long. Marcus stuffed the darkroom full of pans and solutions, collapsed it, and carried it away. Leery took the camera. At the door, he paused for a moment. “Thank you very much for this opportunity, Mr. Bennett and Mr. Hughes. I am sure you will be pleased with the result.”

“Yes, Mr. Leery. Good-bye,” said Bennett.

Hughes frowned at Bennett’s curtness. “Thank you, Mr. Leery. Please do deliver those prints. I will be anxious to see them.”

With that, Leery left. The two men could hear him and Marcus stomping down the stairs with their load. The front door opened and closed. There was silence for a moment. Next came the faint sound of footsteps moving up the stairs, getting louder.

In walked Lucius. “Sir, your guest.”

A figure stood in the doorway. He was clean-shaven, lean, and about average height. The man’s hair was the color of sand. Long exposure to the sun had reddened his skin. His expressionless face was long and narrow. Two bright blue eyes took in the whole room before settling on Bennett.

“Welcome,” said Bennett. Lucius thought he had never seen his master’s grin look so guarded. There was even a touch of dread in it. Bennett shook the stranger’s hand, and then Hughes did the same.

Bennett hobbled across the room and motioned to a chair for his guest. The visitor followed and sat down, and Bennett and Hughes took seats facing him. The visitor turned his head deliberately, looking over his left shoulder in the direction of Lucius, who remained standing near the door. His silent request was perfectly clear—he wanted Lucius to leave—but what immediately caught Bennett’s attention was the ear on the right side of his head. Or what remained of it. Half was missing, and most of the rest was mangled. The only unaffected part was a drooping lobe that would have looked large on a fully attached and healthy ear. On this one, it seemed like a bizarre, dangling growth.

The sight distracted Bennett for a moment. Then he spoke. “Lucius, please leave us,” he said. “Why don’t you go see if Mr. Leery needs help?”

The three men listened to Lucius go down the steps. There was a pause, and then the front door opened and closed.

“I have not been in the United States for many years,” said the visitor.

“This is not the United States anymore, you know,” said Bennett earnestly. “This is South Carolina. We have seceded.”

“Ah, yes,” chuckled the visitor. Bennett was not sure whether he was being laughed with or laughed at. He decided he did not want to know the answer.

Bennett shifted in his seat. “How was your journey?” he asked.

“Agreeable, thank you,” came the reply. “The weather was fine too, and I have found the people of Charleston to be simply delightful.” He smirked. “Shall we set aside these meaningless pleasantries? They are distractions. I know who you are, and I think I know what you want.”

The man spoke excellent English. Bennett had not been sure that he would. There was perhaps the slightest trace of a Spanish accent, but Bennett wondered whether he noticed it only because he was expecting it. Maybe it was not there at all. This man, at any rate, sounded like an American. From the North, he thought.

“What do you know of me?” asked the old plantation owner.

“Quite a lot, I suppose. You are Langston Bennett. You are one of the wealthiest men in the whole Southern part of the United—I mean, in South Carolina,” said the guest. “Forgive me.” He smirked again. “You own an enormous amount of land in the countryside and also keep this house in the city. You’ve spent time on my little island.
Usted aprendió a hablar español
. You were a supporter of Walker and Quitman and probably other filibusters as well. You have sent letters asking after me, and you have received responses recommending me for whatever job you have in mind.”

“Your knowledge is comprehensive,” said Bennett.

“A man in my line of work survives by staying well informed, Mr. Bennett.”

“Then you must know what I want.”

“I think I do, although it is not through any direct knowledge,” said the guest. “It is a matter of deduction.”

“So what have you deduced?”

“When a man like you meets with a man like me, there is generally only one thing he has on his mind. There is a certain kind of job he wants executed, and he wants it done by a professional. In your particular case, given your interests and recent events, I would guess that the job is a bit north of here.” He paused for a moment. “I would guess it’s in what you call the United States. Or at least what remains of it.” This time, he did not smirk.

“You are an intelligent man.”

“I am paid to be intelligent.”

“My offer is an attractive one.”

“You said it would be, and I believe you. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why should I hire you rather than someone else?”

“Because you need me.”

“And why is that?”

The visitor did not move. He did not even cast his eyes downward, Bennett observed. A less confident man would shift in his seat or look away, he thought. This fellow did neither. Bennett found himself liking his guest—or at least approving of him. It was true that the reports he had received from abroad gave his visitor high marks.

“You need me because nobody else can do the job,” said the guest. “I am aware of the reports that others have considered doing what you are about to ask of me. Yet they were ruled by passion and therefore doomed to fail. You must understand that I do not care about your ultimate ends. I do not care what you hope to accomplish by employing me. I care only about the job I am given. That’s why I’m effective. I’m never desperate. I’m simply lethal.”

Bennett absorbed this comment. He began to believe that he had found the man he had set out to find.

“We want you to rid us of this meddlesome president.”

“Right,” said the visitor. “Now give me a good reason to do this.”

“You may know that I have no natural heir,” said Bennett.

“Ever since I lost my two sons, I have searched for a worthy man to assume control of my properties after I am gone. In Tucker Hughes, I have found that man.”

Bennett gestured to Hughes, who nodded his head at the visitor. Then Bennett rose and wobbled over to his desk. He opened a drawer and removed several documents. “This is a copy of my will,” he said when he returned. “Please, take a look at it.”

The guest took the pages and scanned them. “As you can see,” said Bennett, “it lists all of my property and deeds virtually the entire estate to Mr. Hughes.”