“Were you hiding behind a bush?”
“Yeah.”
The way she had resisted the guards proved that she was feisty. But now Rook noticed her tremble. She was afraid.
“Why were you hiding?”
“I gotta see President Abe Lincoln.”
By now, nearly two dozen members of the Frontier Guard had emerged from the East Room. When Portia announced her desire to see the president, they exploded in laughter. “Do you have an appointment?” mocked one, prompting louder guffaws. Several of the guards swore loud oaths that she would never lay eyes on him. “Did you think you were going to find the president behind a bush?” demanded one of them. The others hooted their approval.
“Silence!” shouted Rook. “Let the woman speak.”
“I got a message for President Abe Lincoln,” said Portia in a tone of despair. “I was goin’ up to the house when I heard these loud men comin’ up, singin’ their songs. They frightened me. So I ran behind a bush. It was the first thing I could find.”
“And when you were found out, you tried to run away?”
“Yeah. I ain’t here to talk to them. I come for President Abe Lincoln.”
The guards continued their chortling but hushed at the sound of a tinny voice from down the hall.
“Who wants to speak to the president?”
The guards parted to make way for the tall, bearded speaker, who wore a robe over a nightshirt. He halted before Portia and Rook. John Hay stood just behind him.
“Sir,” said Rook, “perhaps you should let us handle this matter-”
“So that I can go back to sleep?” said Lincoln. “Ha! Nobody can sleep through this racket. Now, who wants to speak to the president?”
Hay shrugged. “You had better just tell him, Colonel,” he said.
“This woman, sir,” said Rook. “Her name is Portia. We don’t know anything about her except that she was found in the bushes outside.”
“I see,” said Lincoln. “Tell me, Portia, what is it you would like to discuss with the president of the United States of America.”
Portia narrowed her eyes. “You’re President Abe Lincoln?”
“I’ve been called much worse.”
Portia did not say anything immediately. Lincoln smiled, trying to put her at ease.
“I’ve come a long way to give you somethin’,” she said, reaching into her pocket.
As she made this move, one of the Frontier Guardsmen raised a pistol and pointed it at Portia. “No tricks,” he warned, moving the gun closer to her than was probably necessary. He looked as though he would enjoy shooting her. Portia froze in place, her hand hidden beneath her clothes.
“Calm down,” said Rook sharply.
“She’s just a stupid slave girl,” sneered the man. “She doesn’t even deserve to be in this house.”
Everyone tensed. Rook thought about pulling out his own pistol to protect Portia, but he hesitated just long enough for Lincoln to speak up. “Whenever I hear anyone arguing for slavery, I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally.”
The Frontier Guards broke into laughter. Their trigger-happy comrade looked embarrassed. “Why don’t you lower that gun,” said the president. The man obeyed. Rook was amazed at the effect.
“Now, Portia, what do you have for me?” asked Lincoln.
Portia looked around nervously. From her pocket, she removed a small piece of paper and turned it face up. The light in the hallway was weak, but Rook could see that it was a photograph. Portia held it out.
Lincoln took the picture and raised it close to his face, squinting at the image. He stared at it for what seemed like quite a while.
“I’ve seen this man before,” he said, still looking at the picture. “He came to me for a job recently. I don’t immediately recall his name. He was good with riddles.” He handed the photograph to Hay. “Do you remember seeing him?”
Hay studied the image. “Yes. I recognize the ear, or rather the lack of one. I let him into your office. I’d have to look at the records to get his name.”
“I know his name,” said Portia. “It’s Mazorca.”
“An unusual name,” said Lincoln. “I don’t think that’s what he called himself with me. Why are you showing me his picture?”
“The man in that picture is gonna try to kill you,” said Portia. A murmur of voices rumbled through the hallway.
“Mr. President,” said Rook, “we need to talk.”
SIXTEEN
THURSDAY, APRIL 25, 1861
A few minutes after eight o’clock, Rook walked into the meeting room of the Winder Building. Portia followed him in. All of the conversations between the officers immediately stopped. Those who were not already seated scrambled for their chairs, almost like schoolchildren who dashed to their desks upon the first sight of their teacher. The only sound came from the ticking of a clock.
The colonel had wondered what his reception would be like. He now realized that there would be no friendly greetings or informal pleasantries. The only exception was Springfield, who nodded almost imperceptibly at him. The two men had not seen each other since the previous day at Tabard’s. Springfield never before had attended one of Scott’s meetings-as a sergeant, his rank was too low-but Rook had sent him a note overnight requesting his presence. The colonel was counting on him to make an important contribution.
Portia’s nighttime appearance at the White House had led to several important connections. Rook learned that she came from the Bennett plantation in South Carolina, carrying the picture of a man supposedly sent to murder the president. Langston Bennett corresponded with Violet Grenier, a secessionist who seemed to sit at the center of a conspiracy. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together, even if the full picture remained unclear.
All eyes were on Rook, who remained standing. The colonel thought he detected a mix of curiosity and skepticism. At the opposite end of the room, sitting furthest from the door, was Scott. He looked positively hostile, with crossed arms. Locke sat to his left, trying to mimic the general’s posture and expression. On the other side of the general sat Seward. Rook had not expected to see him.
Scott was obviously irritated. Having a good sleep interrupted for any reason made the general grumpy. Having it ruined the way it was just a few hours ago, when a messenger from the White House banged on his door in the middle of the night and delivered an urgent note whose contents seemed to undermine so much of what he had been saying over the last several weeks-that was downright humiliating. And Scott disliked few things more than personal humiliation.
Anybody who knew Scott even a little knew this much about him, and Rook had admired the tactful way in which President Lincoln phrased his note to his top general. There was no attempt to complain or disgrace. It was a simple order, issued delicately:
My dear sir:
In the morning, you will be pleased to receive Col. Rook. He will convey information of the utmost importance.
Your obedient servant,
A. LINCOLN
Rook was gratified to see it written and dispatched. At the same time, he knew that it left a lot unsaid. He understood that it would be his responsibility not only to say it but also to impress Scott and the others with its significance.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Rook. Several of the officers mumbled responses. The general continued to glare in silence. “Let me bring you up to date on the events of the last day, culminating with an extraordinary encounter late last night at the White House.”
Rook knew it would be difficult to summarize his recent activities and how he came to know what he knew. He did not want to attribute any blunders to Scott, at least not yet. A genuine threat against the president needed to take precedence.
“This is Portia, the little woman who is responsible for our meeting this morning,” he said. He described her journey from South Carolina to the White House. He mentioned the photograph and how both Lincoln and Hay had recognized the man in the picture.