John Miller - The First Assassin

“You’re a pretty young thing,” she said. “But you’re feelin’ a little cold. I’m gonna get you one more blanket.” She twisted around and called out of the room, “Benjamin! Gimme that green blanket!” Then she turned back to Portia and gave her a warm smile. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

“Do you remember me?” asked Portia.

“I remember a cute little girl from the winter season eight or nine years ago. I know how you’ve grown because your grandfather keeps tellin’ me about you-or at least he answers all the questions I ask. I’ve known that man for years, and you’re the first and only grandchild of his that I’ve met. Of course, I can’t see people in my own family as much as I’d like. Anyway, I know Lucius has a lotta kin. You’re just the only one who has been this way before.”

“How did I get here?”

“I can’t answer that question, honey,” said Nelly. She put down the washcloth and started to fuss with Portia’s hair. “I found you sleepin’ by the back door, right after sunrise. I spotted you through a window and walked outside to kick you awake. We don’t want no vagrants around here. But somethin’ about you looked familiar. The shape of your face is the same as your grandfather’s. I also knew it was you because years ago I saw the woman inside the girl. So I pulled you in here and set you down on this bed. It’s a good thing Mr. Jenkins ain’t around. He wouldn’t lemme skip all this work and take care of you. He’d insist that you go next door to the Bennett place, even though I would tell him there’s nobody there right now. Of course, the fact that nobody’s next door makes me wonder what you’re doin’ in these parts.”

Benjamin walked into the room just as Nelly quit talking. He was a skinny boy of perhaps eight years. He carried a green blanket folded over both arms and gave it to Nelly. “Thank you, Benjamin,” she said as she took it and began spreading it on top of Portia. “This is my own grandson,” said Nelly. “Mr. Jenkins is lettin’ him stay with me through the summer.”

It took Portia all this time to absorb the question Nelly had asked a moment earlier. What was she doing here? Then the reason why struck her. She bolted upright, tossing off the blanket and shoving her hand into a pocket. Nothing was there. She checked another pocket and found what she was looking for.

“My goodness, girl, somethin’ has gotten into you,” said Nelly. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“It’s nothin’.”

“It’s somethin’, all right. You don’t gotta tell me. I understand secrets. Just lemme peek.”

“Sorry, Nelly. I’m not tryin’ to hide nothin’ from you. In fact, it’s you I been lookin’ for. My grandfather sent me. He said you would help.”

“Helpin’ the granddaughter of Lucius. Now that’s somethin’ I would gladly do. Your grandfather is a good man. There ain’t a thing I wouldn’t do for him.”

“He said you can help me get to the North. He said you knew people here in Charleston who can do that.”

Nelly stood up. She looked at Benjamin as if she were about to dismiss the boy because of the conversation’s direction. Before she could do anything, though, Portia spoke up.

“I’ve run away, Nelly. I left the farm and came here. I gotta get to the North.”

“We all wanna do that, honey, every one of us slaves.”

“This ain’t the same thing. There’s somethin’ I need to take there-somethin’ that will help all the slaves.”

“You gonna tell me what it is?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s somethin’ my grandfather gimme. He says I gotta hand it to Abe Lincoln. He said you could help me do that.”

“You’re in Charleston, child, and Washington is a long way off. We slaves can’t just buy tickets and hop on board the next boat.”

“That’s why I need your help. You know how it can be done, don’t you? You know how I can get to Washington. My grandfather said you did.”

Nelly did not reply. She crossed her arms and stared at her grandson. The boy had been riveted to their conversation, his head flicking back and forth between Portia and Nelly as they spoke.

“Do you really think you’re gonna meet Abe Lincoln?”

“I gotta. Please help me. It’s about our freedom-and his freedom too, Nelly.” She pointed to Benjamin.

“Everybody says he’s gonna free the slaves. But you’re askin’ for a whole lot, maybe even a miracle.”

“There won’t be no miracles if you don’t help me.”

“I can’t promise nothin’. If somethin’ went wrong, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to look at your grandfather again.”

“He sent me to you. He would say it’s better to try and fail than not to try at all.”

Nelly thought it over. “When your grandfather said I knew people, he spoke the truth. I know some people right here in Charleston who hate slavery, who would like to see all the slaves have their liberty-and I’m not talkin’ about no colored folks. There’s some white folks who are real quiet about it. But I know how to get to them. Maybe there’s somethin’ we can do.”

“Thanks, Nelly. That’s what my grandfather wants.”

“If I had known your grandfather was gonna send me one of his favorite grandchildren, I never would have said nothing to him. This ain’t a burden I wanted. There’s a good chance this ain’t gonna work, Portia.”

“It’s gotta work. If I’m gonna be punished for runnin’, I want to be caught goin’ north, not by givin’ up.”

Nelly said nothing for a few moments. She barely even moved. Benjamin’s head swiveled between the two women. Portia wondered how much of this he really understood.

Nelly finally broke her silence. “Benjamin, do you remember that store we been walkin’ by, where they take the pictures of people and put them in the front window?”

The boy nodded.

“I want you to run over there right now. Find the owner. Tell him I have an extra-special package for him. He’ll know what it means. His name is Mr. Leery.”

After visiting Clark in the recesses of the Treasury Department’s basement, Rook actually looked forward to supervising the sandbagging of the building’s exterior. It was a lonely assignment for the corporal. Davis and the others still refused to talk. The good news was that nobody had come near Clark or the prisoners. They were secure, at least for the time being.

Outside, Rook spent a few minutes watching a crew of men pile sandbags along Fifteenth Street. Their wall stood at three feet and was growing, layer by layer. By the end of the day, they would have a rudimentary barricade.

Up the street, Rook spotted Springfield standing by the State Department. He had no idea whether the sergeant had been there for long, but Springfield clearly wanted to talk to him and had the good sense not to approach. The last thing either of them needed was for Springfield to be seen in plain clothes doing something other than piling sandbags.

Rook glanced at his crew of men and decided they could spare him for a few minutes. A wagon loaded with more sandbags had just arrived. It was enough to keep them busy for a little longer.

A few minutes later, Rook and Springfield were sitting beside each other on a bench in Lafayette Park.

“I didn’t want to approach you while you were sandbagging,” said Springfield. “I heard what happened at the meeting.”

“I got sandbagged all right.”

“It’s a shame, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it. Technically, as one of my men, you’re supposed to be over here piling bags too. But I don’t care what Scott thinks. I want you to keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you have for me?”

“I started intercepting Grenier’s mail. One letter caught my eye because of who sent it.”