John Miller - The First Assassin

Clark came into sight as he passed the State Department on the corner of Fifteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. He took a seat on the bench beside Rook.

“Whatever they’re planning to do,” said Clark, “they’re planning to do it before tomorrow night.” He described what he had heard following Rook’s departure.

“This is strange,” replied Rook. “We’re missing a piece. The thing that really gnaws at me is the comment about how the shipment is supposed to get here. It won’t arrive by river, rail, or road? That’s doesn’t make any sense. It’s like a riddle.”

“It’s as if he wants us to think something will fall from the sky. His comment makes me wonder whether there really is a shipment at all. Maybe he was trying to throw you off.”

“There’s more to this. Davis is too satisfied by his own cleverness. He and his men are leaving clues all over the place, from their false names to where they go and what they say. They’re convinced that they can fool us.”

Rook didn’t give voice to his next thought: And so far, they are succeeding.

Tucker Hughes galloped hard to the Bennett manor. It was difficult to see in the dark, but he knew the roads well. When he turned onto the lane leading to Bennett’s home, he spurred the beast into a full dash, like a cavalry soldier charging an enemy line. The horse’s speed exhilarated him. So did the uncertainty behind the summons. Bennett had never requested his presence as urgently as he had in the note Hughes still carried in his pocket. He pulled up just short of the front porch. Hughes was not even off the horse when a pair of slaves appeared out of nowhere to take the reins. Tate was right behind them, holding a torch.

“Is Bennett in his study?” asked Hughes as he dismounted.

“No. He’s down in the shed.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“A little disciplining. Come with me.”

The two men walked briskly. They passed the kitchen and then went between two rows of small buildings. Soon they descended into a small hollow. Hughes heard the groans before he saw the shed. The sound was jarring, and Hughes only recognized it as human because he had heard it before, on his own plantation. It was the animal noise of deep pain, a strange mix of moans and whimpers. Bennett shouted something, but the only words Hughes could make out were “betrayal” and “traitor.” Then came the sound of a whip whooshing through the air and ripping into flesh, followed by a miserable yelp and more of Bennett’s yells.

Tate halted outside the door. “Let’s wait here a few minutes.”

The shed was not a shed at all. That was just what everyone called it. It was actually one of the older buildings on the farm, a brick structure that had gone up decades earlier, when the first generation of Bennetts came to this place. It had been used for storing tools and other equipment until Bennett’s father replaced it with some of the newer buildings closer to the manor. It had remained in disrepair ever since, even as it gained a new use: this was where Bennett and the overseers meted out punishments to slaves. If somebody on the Bennett plantation was “taken to the shed,” it meant he was beaten here.

“Why is Bennett doing this himself?” asked Hughes.

“He’s mighty upset about something,” replied Tate. “I never thought I’d see him do this to Lucius.”

“Lucius?” Hughes was stunned. “He likes that slave more than he likes a lot of white people.”

“I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

The door of the shed flew open, and Bennett stomped out. Inside, Hughes could see Lucius on his knees, with both wrists held above his head and chained to an iron ring mounted on a post. It almost looked as though he were genuflecting, except that he was obviously slumped over. He was breathing, so he was still alive. Yet his neck and back were streaked with blood. Hughes knew something of whippings, and this looked like a thorough one.

“What took you so long?” barked Bennett when he saw Hughes.

“Good evening to you too, Langston.”

“We have a big problem here,” snapped Bennett, ambling by Hughes and Tate and heading toward the house. The two younger men fell in beside him.

“What’s the trouble?”

“Two of my slaves have run off, and they’ve got something we need. That turncoat Lucius told me everything.”

Hughes waited for an explanation, but Bennett did not elaborate. They walked back to the manor. Bennett stopped in front of it.

“It is of the greatest urgency that we track down the two fugitives,” said Bennett. He pointed at Tate. “You may do nothing more important for me during your employment here than this. In fact, if you succeed in this task, I will double your salary for the next three months.”

“You can count on me,” said Tate.

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid we don’t have time to organize a whole party. The two of you will have to leave immediately.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Tate.

“I didn’t think so. Now, Mr. Tate, I would like a word with Mr. Hughes.”

“I’ll need a few minutes to get the dogs.” The overseer hurried away.

“I’m confused,” said Hughes. “What does this have to do with me?”

“The runaways-Portia and Big Joe-have a photograph of Mazorca in their possession.”

“What?”

“You must get it back.”

“Lucius told you this?”

“No. Somebody else told me. But Lucius confirmed it. He actually helped take the picture in Charleston, the day we met with Mazorca.”

Hughes didn’t reply. Bennett just glared at him, making sure Hughes understood what it meant: this trouble might have been avoided entirely but for the photography session that Hughes had arranged.

“How did he do it?” asked Hughes.

“The details hardly matter. Suffice it to say they have a photo, and we must get it back. I don’t care if you catch them or kill them-just get that photo back.”

“It’s against the law to kill a slave.”

Bennett shot him a nasty look. “Just get me that photo. I don’t care how you do it.”

“Are you certain that Portia and Big Joe are traveling together?”

“Yes. They’re on horses headed for Charleston. Lucius says he doesn’t know what they’ll do when they reach the city-or if he does know, he isn’t saying. But that’s where they’re going. That ought to give you enough information to find them.”

For a moment, Hughes said nothing. He was thinking about Portia and his recent encounter with her.

“You mentioned Portia. Is she the one-?”

“Yes. She’s the one you offered to purchase from me only two days ago. If you catch her, you can keep her and do with her as you please.”

Hughes smiled. “I may very well do that.”

Just then, Tate arrived with the dogs. Bennett’s overseer was an experienced slave catcher. There were a few professionals in the area, and Bennett had hired them from time to time. But Tate was their equal on the chase. Hughes knew what he was doing too. He had once remarked to Bennett that chasing runaways was like a sport to him. “No other hunting compares to it,” he had said. “I never grow bored with it, for the quarry has courage and cunning. Runaways are the most exciting game-the most dangerous game.”

When they set off, Bennett walked into the manor and went to his study. He looked at the clock. It was a few minutes to midnight-much later than he liked to be awake. He sat down at his desk and took out a piece of stationery. He wrote in a clear cursive and left wide spaces between the lines.

April 19

Dear Violet,

Please accept my apologies for waiting so long to write since my last letter. The developments in Charleston have kept me busy. I am quite hopeful for the future, though.