“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.
Do you remember Lucius, my old manservant? I’m sorry to report he has recently suffered a terrible bout of something-it’s so hard to say what-and may not last the night. I will miss him so.
Sincerely,
Langston Bennett
When Bennett finished composing these words, he put down his pen and ran his fingers along the left-hand side of his desk. They paused about halfway across and then pulled on something. It was a hidden compartment. Among the items Bennett removed from the little drawer was a tiny brass key. He set it on the edge of the desk. Next he touched up the letter he had just written, addressed an envelope to Violet Grenier in Washington, and sealed the letter inside. In the morning, he would order a rider to take it to the postmaster.
Then he took the small key and unlocked a drawer to his right, on the front of the desk. He put the key back in its hidden compartment and opened the drawer he had just unlocked. He reached inside and pulled out a pistol. He turned it in his hand and admired its design. Then he opened the chamber to confirm that it was loaded.
About ten minutes later, everybody on the Bennett plantation heard a single shot echo through the night. It came from the vicinity of the shed.
ELEVEN
SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1861
Mazorca had wanted to look inside the narrow brick house at 398 Sixteenth Street, but the pair of first-floor windows was too high off the ground and the shutters were closed anyway. If he had not known better, he might have assumed that the house was locked and abandoned, like so many others in Washington. But about an hour earlier he had watched its two occupants descend the steps and walk toward Lafayette Park. Mazorca then slipped into an alley about halfway down the block. A door in the back was locked, but a window next to it was not. Mazorca pulled himself through and began to inspect the three-story home.
Now that he was in, he wanted to look back out. He went to one of the tall windows on the front of the house, pushed the shutter slats open, and peeked through. A carriage rolled by on Sixteenth Street. Across the street sat St. John’s Church, a yellow building with Doric columns. He glanced to his right, across Lafayette Park. Mazorca knew that President Lincoln’s mansion lay within rifle range, at least for a very good marksman, but the angle from here was too severe to see much of it. It was not a good view.
Upstairs, he searched a library and several bedrooms. A curled-up cat slept on one of the beds. It looked surprised to see him, but not so alarmed that it failed to fall back asleep a few minutes later. Mazorca checked the view to the south from the windows on these top floors. As he expected, their lines of sight were no better.
In the library, stacks of correspondence indicated the woman living in the house was a prolific letter writer, or at least a person who received many letters in the mail. A large collection of maps suggested an interest in cartography, except that they were all local and many were marked. If there really was an interest, it was not academic.
Mazorca did not read any of the letters or study the maps. Instead he returned to the red-walled front parlor and sat down in the tete-a-tete, positioning himself in the part of the S-shaped couch that faced the doorway. The room did not let in much light with the shutters closed, so at first he just sat there. He did not want to turn on the gas lamp beside him.
Patience was a virtue in his line of work. The prospect of sitting in the parlor an hour or two did not bother him. He was only a few minutes into his wait, however, when he decided to reach for a pair of books resting on a table next to his seat. He had noticed them earlier, but their spines were turned away and he could not see their titles. Pulling them into his lap, he opened to their title pages: A Treatise on Field Fortifications by Dennis Hart Mahan and the first volume of Infantry Tactics by Winfield Scott.