John Miller - The First Assassin

“What is your name?” she asked with disarming sincerity.

“I’m called Mazorca,” he said.

“It is a strange name. A little mysterious, too.”

“No more strange and mysterious than a woman who reads books on infantry tactics and fortifications.”

“They are in the front windows of all the bookstores.”

“And ladies are buying them?”

“Last year I couldn’t tell the difference between a flanking maneuver and a casement carriage. Now I’m able to carry on whole conversations with federal officers about their work. I’m able to learn things which I may then pass along to others who find such information useful.”

“You sound like a spy.”

For the first time since entering, Grenier smiled. It brought warmth to her features. “We all have our secrets,” she said, circling around the tete-a-tete and sitting in the seat opposite Mazorca, even though the parlor contained several chairs.

“Perhaps, like your name, it is something we best leave a bit mysterious. I am Violet Grenier, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mazorca.”

“Likewise. But I’m curious about something. An hour ago, two of you left this house, but only one of you returned.”

“You’ve been watching me?” She sounded more flattered than offended. “That was Polly, who helps out around here. She has several hours off. I had thought that I would be alone in the house. Then you turned up.”

She leaned toward Mazorca and touched his arm gently. Just by watching her look at him, Mazorca understood what Bennett meant when he called Grenier the most persuasive woman in Washington.

“Your ear is terribly scarred,” she said. “What happened?”

“It’s an old injury, acquired far from here during a disagreement.”

“Something tells me that your adversary lost more than a piece of skin.”

“He did not fare well.”

Grenier smiled. “I have entertained presidents in this very spot,” she whispered.

“What about the current one?”

She pulled away from him, as if the mere thought of Lincoln was physically repulsive. “No. Never. He is the Mammon of Unrighteousness. I believe this is a subject upon which Langston Bennett and I are in complete agreement.”

“That would seem to be the case.”

“And that is why I’m willing to help you,” she said, drawing near again.

“I would appreciate it if you simply told me what you know about Lincoln and his circle.”

“The abolitionists are pathetic. Because of them I cannot now look upon the Stars and Stripes and see anything but a symbol of murder, plunder, oppression, and shame.”

Her face had twisted into a scowl, but the expression vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. “I certainly understand the importance of consorting with them,” she continued. “I’m friendly with some-quite friendly, as a matter of fact. I receive detailed reports on cabinet meetings, troop movements, and the like. I’m often aware of what the president intends to do, and I know it before Congress or the newspapers do. It requires me to spend a considerable amount of time in the company of people whose opinions I find repellent. Yet it is all in the service of a cause greater than us. Wouldn’t you agree, Mazorca?”

“It will serve your purposes and mine if you can share some of what you know with me, Mrs. Grenier.”

She smiled sweetly and touched his arm again. “Please, call me Violet.”

“What can you tell me about the president, Violet?”

“I will try to be objective,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“I have despised him ever since he came to prominence in those debates with Stephen Douglas, when they were campaigning for the Senate three years ago. He is a buffoon from the backwoods of the far frontier. Much of Washington and even many of his supposed friends consider him a coward-first for the way he sneaked into the city in the middle of the night before his inauguration, and then for taking the oath of office under armed guard. There are soldiers everywhere nowadays. We’re used to seeing them in Washington, of course, but today they have a greater presence than ever before. The president wants more of them still. Some of my friends say he is worried about an invasion from Virginia and Maryland. He should be, considering how his policies are driving half the states to secession. By preparing for war, however, he makes it impossible for people to believe he is a man of peace. I think he wants to assemble an abolitionist army and intends to rule the Southern states with an iron fist.”

“How does he spend his time?”

“Mostly in the mansion. He has long lines of visitors seeking favors. There are cabinet meetings. You may have noticed that he has turned the place into a military camp, with those vile men from the West arriving just the other day.”

“You mean Jim Lane’s men?”

“Yes, they’re the ones-and they’re more evidence that Lincoln is yellow. If he really were a man of the people, why would he place so many soldiers between himself and the public?”

“Does he ever go out in public?”

“Not often. I actually haven’t seen much of him.”

“When he’s out, does he have guards?”

“A few. He is less secure outside the White House than in it. He’s often in a crowd, though. The man may never be alone. Yet there are fewer soldiers around him when he leaves the grounds of the mansion than when he stays inside its walls. I’m told that some of the officers on General Scott’s staff are not pleased by this state of affairs. They believe the president is vulnerable in these moments. They are so worried about his life they would rather lock Lincoln in a bank vault than so much as let him peep out a window. I have this on exceedingly good authority.”

“What does General Scott think?”

“General Scott!” she chuckled. “Have you seen him? He is the fattest man in the country. He’s a traitor too. The other sons of Virginia are rallying to defend their homes, like Robert E. Lee. But fat Scott won’t have anything to do with it. That would probably require him to get on a horse and ride south-but there’s no horse that could support his bulk.”

She laughed again and then turned serious. “Yet this is not what you asked me. I know Scott well-he has called on me here-and I know he is a spent man. His finest days are far behind him. He will do what Lincoln tells him to do, perhaps offer a few ideas, and little more. He certainly won’t challenge any of his orders, as much as a few of the younger officers on his staff might like him to. There is a Colonel Rook who presses him to be more aggressive.”

“Do you know Rook?”

“Rook is an enigma to me. Most of the officers in Washington always worry about their prospects. They pass up no opportunity to mingle with the cabinet and Congress. They would like to win favors as much as battles. It is a wonder they find any time at all to think about war and prepare for it. Yet Rook is not like them. He avoids society. I do not predict that his career will flourish.”

“I’m less concerned about where he is in the future than what he’s doing now.”

“Of course. He may be a man to watch-and to beware. Scott put him in charge of the president’s security, so it is Rook who was responsible for that extravagant military display at the inauguration. It is hard to believe, but he apparently thinks that Lincoln is under protected.”

Grenier rose from the couch. “But enough about Rook. There is something I would like you to have, Mazorca,” she said. She walked into the other parlor and returned with a key in her hand. “This was given to me by a friend who has left the city. It is to a home located at 1745 N Street. I am to look in on it occasionally while he is gone. He has not yet decided whether to sell or rent, though it is probably impossible to do either right now. You may use it as a safe house. Do not go there unless you must-it would appear odd if you were seen to be coming and going all the time-but also know it is there for you in a time of need.”