John Miller - The First Assassin

“There’s a girl, all right, Mr. Bennett. But she ain’t one of Mr. Wilson’s.”

“This is a good beginning, Sally. Come with me inside the house. We can sit down and relax. Then you can tell me everything you know.”

They went into the dining room of the manor and sat at the table. It occurred to Sally that she had been in this room only a couple of times in her whole life, and certainly not to sit down with Bennett. When one of the house servants asked Bennett if he would like something to drink, she was astonished to hear him ask her if she wanted something too. A minute later, a pair of tall glasses of iced tea rested before them. It was the most delicious drink Sally thought she had ever tasted. She did not know what to say, and Bennett initially saved her from saying anything at all.

“There you go, Sally. Make yourself comfortable and tell me your story.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennett. I’m gonna tell you everything.”

“Please do.”

“Yesterday morning, I was cooking in the kitchen, like I do almost every day. I started feeling a little queasy. I don’t know why, I just did. Margaret told me to go lay down and she would cover for me. So I did. I was there in my bed for about twenty minutes and already startin’ to feel better when I heard Joe through the window. He was talkin’ to someone, a woman who was beggin’ him to run off with her. I listened for a spell. She said her grandfather wanted her to deliver some kind of photograph to Mr. Lincoln in Washington.”

“A photograph?”

“You know, one of those real-life pictures?”

“I know what a photograph is,” said Bennett. “But I’m puzzled why someone of your class would care about one.”

“It sounded so crazy, Mr. Bennett, I hardly believed it. But that’s what they were talkin’ about-gettin’ all the way to Washington. Joe wasn’t saying yes, but he wasn’t saying no. I ran outside and broke them up. Joe wouldn’t promise me that he wasn’t going to run away. He kept sayin’ that he had to get back to work before Mr. Tate wondered about him. I finally got him to promise that he wasn’t going anywhere, but I wasn’t sure he was tellin’ the truth. I think he was just tryin’ to put me off. He avoided me the rest of the day, and then I didn’t see him at all last night or this morning. I do believe he’s gone, Mr. Bennett, and I just wanna get him back here where I know he’s safe.”

This took a moment to absorb. Bennett took a sip from his drink and set it back on the table.

“First of all, Sally, thank you very much. Your cooperation is very helpful. With it, I’m certain we’ll get Joe back soon.”

Sally perked up at this. She was gratified by Bennett’s response. He did not seem angry. That possibility had worried her. She always thought Bennett was a good master-better than all the other ones in these parts. But she had seen him mad too, and even the best masters could be cruel.

“I do have a few questions, Sally.”

“Yes?”

He tried to comfort her with a smile, but the anger inside him was mounting and the effort strained.

“Who was the woman you heard talking to Joe?”

“It was Portia.”

Bennett felt his rage begin to swell. The pleasant demeanor he had tried to present to Sally vanished as he barked out more questions.

“Did either Joe or Portia mention the Wilson farm?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Did they discuss how they intended to get to Washington?”

“I didn’t hear nothin’ about that.”

“And they planned to take a photograph to Mr. Lincoln?” He spit out the name with obvious distaste.

“Yes, Mr. Bennett.”

“Do you know what was in this photograph?”

“From the way it sounded, it was a picture of a person. Someone who was gonna hurt Mr. Lincoln.”

“Did you see the photograph?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t they have it?”

“No, sir.”

“Damn it, Sally, what do you know?”

The slave woman lowered her head. She began to shake with sobbing. Bennett knew he was pushing her hard. He had done a good job of winning this woman’s trust, and now he saw it slipping away. His mind faulted his approach. Yet he was too furious to stop. He forged ahead.

“Sally, look at me!” he shouted. He saw the tears in her eyes when she lifted her face. “Where was the photograph when you overheard them?”

“Someone else had it.”

“Who?”

Sally looked away from Bennett. She knew he would not welcome the answer. At this point, though, she had made her decision to confide in him. She could hardly hide it.

“Lucius.”

Bennett shot up from the table and thrust his chair backward with such force that it gouged the wall behind him. In the same motion, he grabbed his walking stick, which had been resting against the table, and let out a roar. His eyes fell on the half-full drink in front of him. He raised his cane and whacked the glass. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spraying across the room. Sally screamed and covered her face in her hands as several house servants hurried into the room. Bennett pointed to one of them. “Get me Tate!” he growled. The slave immediately sprinted out of the manor.

Bennett gripped his cane in both hands now, so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his hands trembled. Then he stumbled out of the dining room, pushing one of the slaves out of his way as he lurched into the foyer and then through the front door and onto the porch. He started pacing back and forth. His peg leg pounded against the boards like a hammer.

Sally staggered out a moment later. She fell to her knees in front of Bennett and clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “Please don’t hurt my Joe, Mr. Bennett! Please don’t hurt him!”

Bennett stopped in front of her and picked up his cane. For a dreadful few seconds he held it there, as if he were thinking about bashing it into her. Sally shut her eyes, expecting the blow.

“Get up,” he ordered at last. Sally rose to her feet. “Get out of here.”

As Sally ran down the steps crying hysterically, Tate raced toward the manor. In a minute, he was on the porch in front of Bennett. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bennett?”

“We have two runaways, Tate, and also a conspirator who’s still on the farm.”

“Big Joe and Portia?”

“Yes.”

“And who did they leave behind?” Tate asked. The corners of his mouth turned upwards ever so slightly. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in this development.

“Lucius.” Bennett could hardly have spoken the name with more venom.

“I will gladly take care of him,” said Tate, beginning to unfasten the whip at his side.

“No, I will handle him,” said Bennett. “Come with me.”

The two men walked through the front door and made their way to Bennett’s study. The old plantation master sat down at his desk and scribbled a short note. He handed it to Tate.

“Have this delivered to Mr. Hughes right away. I’m asking him to rush over here as soon as possible. Then fetch Lucius. Take him to the shed. I will be there shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tate turned to go, but Bennett stopped him. “One more thing, Mr. Tate,” said Bennett, pointing to the lash dangling from Tate’s hip. “That’s the least thing Lucius needs to worry about.”

In Lafayette Park, about ten blocks from Brown’s Hotel, Rook wondered how long it would take for Clark to arrive. They had agreed to meet here, and the colonel grew anxious about being out of uniform for so long. It was the middle of the afternoon. He would have to blaze through his rounds.

He sat beneath the bronze statue of Andrew Jackson mounted on a rearing horse. Many people believed that Jackson was the best man the country had produced since Washington. Rook knew that Scott was no admirer, but it was hard to avoid regarding Jackson as anything but a hero. As a general during the War of 1812, he saved the country’s honor by winning the Battle of New Orleans. Then he became president and opposed South Carolina in the first secession crisis, a generation before the current one. Rook thought that the country needed a new leader like Jackson, someone who could rally the South for union. Looking at the White House, he wondered whether Lincoln had what it would take. He was not optimistic.