“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.”
She returned to her seat on the tete-a-tete and handed Mazorca the key. “I’m here for you too,” she said in a low voice. “Let me know if there is anything you need.” She leaned across the couch and kissed Mazorca lightly on the lips. “I mean anything.”
A moment later, she led him upstairs.
Joe and Portia had never felt so tired. Two nights had passed since leaving the Bennett plantation. The physical effort was exhausting, and the nerve-wracking knowledge of what lay in store for them if they were caught only made matters worse.
Portia even found their general direction unsettling: all her life she had understood the promise of freedom lay to the north. In the night sky, she looked for the Big Dipper-or the Drinking Gourd, as she knew it-and spotted the two stars in that constellation that pointed toward the North Star. When she gazed up at the clear sky that first night, though, she realized she was heading the opposite way. This was intentional, of course: their destination was Charleston, which lay to the south. It just seemed unnatural.
She might have banished the thought from her mind if she and Joe had avoided simple blunders and made more progress. On their first night, however, a wrong turn had cost them a substantial amount of travel time. Neither Portia nor Joe was sure how far they had gone in those first hours, but they knew it was not far enough. At daybreak they retreated to the edge of an isolated meadow and ate most of their food. They tried to sleep, but it was a fitful effort for both of them. Their horses had wandered off. They could not take the risk of searching for them, so they would have to finish their journey on foot.
After the second night, the dim light of dawn had found them near a large plantation, where they observed a few field hands beginning their chores. Portia and Joe were not sure whether any of these slaves had spotted them, but they knew for certain that they had to find a new hideout for the day. A stand of trees rose about half a mile from the plantation, and they hustled into it. Leaves and branches concealed them from view.
“Do you think we’re safe here?” asked Portia.
“Safer than if we were still on that road,” replied Joe. “As soon as a white person sees us out there, we’re done.”
They were too anxious from their journey to sleep right away. They fed themselves from the small supplies of food that remained and cleared an area for lying down. This chore was just about finished when a dry branch cracked nearby. They looked toward the noise: a slave boy was coming toward them from the general direction of the plantation. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old.
Joe pulled out his knife and went right for him. The big man was swift for his size. He raced forward, grabbed the boy by his collar, and threw him to the ground.
“Who’re you?” he demanded, holding his knife in front of the boy’s face.
The boy shook with fear. “Jeremiah,” he said in a quivering voice. “My name’s Jeremiah.”
Joe patted Jeremiah’s clothes to see if the boy carried weapons. There were none.
“Where you from, Jeremiah?”
“I live on the Stark plantation.”
“Oh no!” said Portia.
Joe looked at her. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve heard of it before. We wanted to be at least this far after the first night.”
Joe returned his attention to the slave lying on his back. “How far to Charleston?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t mess with me, boy,” said Joe, flashing the blade.
“I don’t know. I ain’t never been there.”
“What should I do with him, Portia?”
“Don’t say our names!” she scolded.
“Sorry.”
“Let him up,” she said.