“Thank you very much,” said the plantation master. “Yes, it’s good to be back. And it’s good to see you. All of you look wonderful.” There were a few scattered handclaps. “I’m returning a little bit later this spring than I had intended. There is much ado in Charleston this year!” He paused, seeming to expect another outburst, as if he were addressing a convention of slaveholders. Instead, there almost was no response at all.
“Good to be back, yes, good to be back,” he said, almost to himself. Then he recovered. “Shall we see what I’ve brought from the city?”
This met with a better reception-the applause returned, and so did Bennett’s smile. He reached into the box and pulled out something big and brown. He fumbled with it for a moment and then announced, “Trousers!” He looked at the crowd. “Who would like a new pair of trousers?”
A balding man who appeared about forty years old stepped forward. His own pants were shredded at the bottom of their legs. There was a hole at one of his knees. “Willie! It’s good to see you, my boy,” shouted Bennett as he tossed the trousers to him. “Looks like you could use a pair!”
Willie caught the pants. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett,” he said.
Bennett continued with more trousers and went on to a box of shirts. Then shoes. Then belts. Then hats. There was no method to how he went about it. He just moved on to the next box and reveled in the task of passing out each item individually. Tate tried to make sure the goods went to the slaves who needed them the most, and he had to settle a few small disputes over who received what. Bennett went on interacting with each of the recipients, albeit briefly, and made sure to say a slave’s name every time. Lucius noticed that Bennett missed a few of the names, using one incorrectly or having to be reminded of it. In years past, he had almost never made a mistake.
Bennett was most of the way through the boxes when it happened. He lifted the top off the next one and announced, “Dresses!” He pulled out an attractive maroon garment, and a few of the women stepped forward in anticipation. “Ah, yes,” said Bennett, admiring the piece of clothing. “This one is for Portia! Where’s Portia?”
Lucius looked down at the ground and kicked the dirt.
“Portia? Where are you?”
No one came forward.
“Portia?”
There was now a general commotion among the slaves. When it became clear that Portia was not among them, they threw suspicious glances at one another. Most of them said nothing. A few cupped their hands and whispered into the ears of their neighbors.
“Portia?”
Lucius peered into the crowd, pretending to look for her. Then he caught the eye of Sally, Big Joe’s mother. She was staring right at him. It was a hard look, full of anger. Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head back and forth, almost imperceptibly. At that moment, Lucius knew that she knew.
“Lucius, where is Portia?”
The old slave looked up at his master, still standing on the cart holding the maroon dress.
“I’m sorry, sir, what were you saying?”
“Where’s Portia?”
“My granddaughter?”
Bennett raised his eyebrows. “There’s only one Portia on this farm.”
“Yes. Of course,” said Lucius. “I’m sorry, sir. She told me she wasn’t feeling well this morning and wanted to take a little walk. I should have told you. I forgot to do that. I’m sorry, sir.”
Bennett said nothing for a moment. He just stared at Lucius.
“A little walk this morning? Why isn’t she back?”
“Maybe she took a nap. She didn’t look very well.”
“I see. That’s peculiar. She’s a healthy girl, isn’t she?”
“Yessir. Most of the time anyway.”
“And you forgot about this, even though we spoke about her just a little bit ago?”
“I’m sorry.”
Bennett dropped the maroon dress onto the floor of the cart. “Mr. Tate,” he cried, “please help me down from here.” The overseer hurried to the cart and assisted his boss. “Thank you, Mr. Tate. I am getting a bit tired. Perhaps you will finish this business for me?”
Tate hopped onto the cart and grabbed the maroon dress. He handed it to a woman standing almost right beside him, and then he went back into the box for more.
Bennett walked over to Lucius. “Something isn’t right.”
“I’m sure she’ll be back soon, sir.”
“I’m not talking about Portia.”
Lucius was dumbfounded. This was all beginning to unravel too quickly. What a mistake he had made. What a terrible, dreadful mistake.
“Listen here,” said Bennett. “You’ve been working long hours for me the last few days. I want you to take the rest of the day for yourself. Stay down here and visit with your family. I can get by until morning.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lucius. “But I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“You will do what I say.”
Bennett spoke with a sharpness Lucius did not often hear directed his way. The tone troubled him. Surrender seemed the only course. “Yessir,” he replied, bowing his head. Lucius felt like an exile. He watched Bennett amble away toward the manor. The distance between them was growing, in more ways than one.
Bennett walked up the path and disappeared from the view of the slaves. He was tired. An activity like this used to take almost nothing out of him. Now he could hardly complete it. He might have gone on, but he was disappointed to hear about Portia. Two of his favorite and most obedient slaves were absent, and Lucius seemed to be the only one who knew anything about where they were. The implications were obvious, but he did not want to think about them. He decided to take a nap and not to worry about the situation until later in the day. Perhaps he had been too irritable with Lucius. A rest might do him good. Surely Portia and Joe would be back by then. This mystery would solve itself soon enough.
He was almost to his house, his mind set squarely on his bed upstairs, when he heard a woman’s voice calling him from behind.
“Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett!”
He turned around. It was Sally, Big Joe’s mother, and she was coming toward him at a jog.
“Yes, Sally?”
“Oh, Mr. Bennett, I’m so glad I can speak to you alone like this,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”
After leaving the White House grounds, Mazorca wandered around the city. He had memorized details from guidebooks, but studying maps and reading descriptions only went so far. Nothing provided as clear a sense of place as being there. His immediate concern was to find somewhere to stay-a base of operations.
He roamed up and down Pennsylvania Avenue and explored its intersecting streets. The south side of the Avenue-the part called Murder Bay-was full of shady saloons and brothels. Things improved to the north, but Mazorca did not want to check in to one of the large hotels that lined the Avenue. He wanted something smaller, a room at a place where he might come and go without having to pass through a crowded lobby. He eventually found what he was looking for at a boardinghouse several blocks north of the Avenue, between Sixth Street and Seventh Street.
The address was 604 H Street. It was a three-story building squeezed between two others. More important, though, was its location near the city center but not so close as to be a part of it. Mazorca watched it for a few minutes from across the street. In the middle of the day, it was impossible to tell how many people it housed-they were probably all at work. But he did see a woman bustling around the first floor. He figured she was the proprietress.
“Good afternoon!” she said when Mazorca walked through the door. “My name is Mary Tabard. Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”
She was a large woman, tall and heavy. A frumpy dress covered her shapeless body. Her pale brown hair was held in a bun. Mazorca guessed that she was fifty years old.