John Miller - The First Assassin

The president smiled. “You are a clever fellow. Most people don’t get that one.”

“It’s an easy mistake.”

“A careless one, too. It reminds me of a story. One day, a farmer was working around his property when his son-a boy of about ten years-came rushing up to him. ‘Pa,’ he shouted, full of excitement, ‘come quick! The hired man and sis are in the barn, up in the hayloft. He’s pullin’ down his pants and she’s liftin’ up her skirt!’”

Lincoln paused, barely able to suppress a big grin. It appeared as though he had told this story many times and took delight in watching it fall on fresh ears.

“‘Pa,’” continued Lincoln, in the earnest voice of the boy, “‘they’re gonna pee all over our hay!’”

Lincoln howled at this line, doubling over in his seat. As the president wiped an eye with his sleeve, Mazorca smiled politely and tapped his foot. He felt the holster strapped to his calf. The possibilities buzzed through his mind. All he would have to do was pull up his pant leg and remove the gun. He had thought the deed might be accomplished from a distance, with a rifle. Now he wondered if it could be done up close. It would be easy, unbelievably easy. But then, this was always the easy part. The hard part was the escape.

Mazorca found himself enormously tempted to take advantage of this extraordinary moment. He looked at the window but knew from his earlier observations that the drop to the ground was too far. He would probably break a leg, or worse. The sound of the shot would set off an alarm through the whole house, too. Hay would burst in immediately, followed by the men waiting in line in the other room. Some of them were sure to have weapons. Mazorca thought he might hold them off for a moment with his pistol, but he knew a gunfight was not in his interests. Scores of Lane’s men would swarm the White House and its grounds in seconds. They would spot a man running across the south lawn and begin a chase-and a chase was the thing he most wanted to avoid. The way to escape after killing a target was not to become a target right afterwards. That meant creating uncertainty about where the shot came from and who pulled the trigger. Ideally, he would walk away calmly from the scene of an assassination.

“I have received several other inquiries about lighthouses in New Jersey,” said Lincoln, when he finally stopped laughing. “You are by no means the first and may not be the last. I have not made any decisions yet and will give your request full consideration.”

Mazorca realized he was being released from the interview, but he wanted this bizarre meeting to continue. He nodded at the portrait of Jackson. “I did not take you to be an admirer of his.”

“Doubt my credentials, do you?” smiled the president. “I thought doubting credentials was my job.” He gave a short laugh, a high-pitched hee-haw, and looked at the picture.

“Many people assume that a Republican like me wouldn’t hang his picture. It was here when I moved in-a remnant of the previous administration. I had hoped it might bring me some success in my own dealings with South Carolina. I suppose that’s what Mr. Buchanan wanted too. It didn’t help either of us much, did it? President Jackson had a little more luck with that state than we did.”

Lincoln paused for a moment and made eye contact with Mazorca, who sat motionless. “It does remind me of another story, which comes from that old revolutionary war hero Ethan Allen. Do you have time for a short one?”

Mazorca nodded his approval. Sometimes a fruit appearing ripe on the outside could be rotten on the first bite. He decided to let Lincoln survive this accidental encounter. Their next meeting would be different.

“Allen was visiting England, sometime after our country had secured its independence,” said Lincoln. “His hosts enjoyed poking fun at Americans, so they put a picture of George Washington in the most undignified place they could imagine-the back room, you know, where they kept the toilet. They could hardly wait for their guest to see the picture and were delighted when Allen excused himself for a moment. His hosts were bursting with anticipation while he was away, and they guessed at what Allen might do or say when he returned. They were startled, though, when Allen came back in with a huge grin on his face. He did not appear even mildly annoyed. One of his hosts finally asked, ‘What did you think of the decor?’ And Allen replied, ‘Very appropriate. In fact, I cannot think of a better place for an Englishman to hang a picture of General Washington than above the can.’ The reply confused everybody, so the host asked, ‘Why is that?’ And Allen replied, ‘Because there is nothing in the world except the sight of General Washington that will make an Englishman so quick to shit!’”

Lincoln roared at the punch line, slapped his knee, and rose from his seat. Mazorca did not quite grasp the point of the story, but he stood up too and understood he was being dismissed for good. Maybe that was the point.

Lincoln put a hand on his shoulder as they walked to the door. “You are a man of few words, Mr. Collins. That is probably a good quality in someone seeking out the loneliness of lighthouse work. You also seem to have a talent for riddles. I’ll see what I can do for you. Good day.”

Looking out the window for Hughes and Tate made Bennett feel helpless. Years ago, he would have led the pursuit of Portia and Joe. Now, every glance made him tense. This was no pursuit of ordinary fugitives. Portia and Joe had something in their possession that he desperately wanted to have returned.

Bennett tried to reason his way out his anxiety. The odds of these two slaves making it all the way to Washington were incredibly low. Even if they did make it, they might not arrive in time. Mazorca would strike at some point. Bennett did not know when or how, but he knew it would happen. Anything the slaves did after that would come too late. And even if by some miracle they made it to Washington and also made it in time to interfere with Mazorca, there was the very distinct possibility that nobody would take them seriously. They would have to convince the right people in government that their photograph contained important information. Yet they were nothing but a pair of runaway slaves who could not even write their names on a scrap of paper.

It was early in the afternoon, following a small lunch he had eaten alone in the dining room, when Bennett finally saw something. In the distance, a man on a horse turned onto the path leading up the manor. Behind him were three horses without riders. Was that Tate?

Bennett walked onto the porch. He saw that it definitely was his overseer. But why was Tate by himself? Where was Hughes? What was that big sack draped across the back of a horse? Its shape and size troubled him. His mood darkened as Tate approached the steps and stopped.

“What is going on here, Mr. Tate? Where is Mr. Hughes?”

“I have some very bad news to report, Mr. Bennett.” Tate explained what had happened.

When he was done, Bennett summarized what he had just heard: “So Hughes is hurt, Joe is dead, and Portia is missing. I presume this is Joe’s body you have here?”

“I thought we should bury it here at the plantation.”

“Remove the body from the horse immediately and put it on the ground right here.”

“I thought I would take it directly to the slave cemetery, sir, and gather Joe’s relations for a quick funeral. We really should get this body in the ground soon.”

“Did you hear me, Mr. Tate?” yelled Bennett. “Do it now.”

Tate was baffled by the request, but he and a slave lowered the body to the ground. The stiffness made it difficult to manipulate.

“Remove the wrappings,” commanded Bennett.