Hughes was struck by the old man’s passion, but his mind was on the table. “War must be considered,” he said, angling for a view of the papers. “If we show the North we are willing to fight, it may acquiesce.”
Making sure Bennett could not see him, Hughes leaned over the table. A letter on top read, “Su espanol es bueno, pero mi ingles es mejor. Your offer is generous. I would like to meet in person to discuss it. Expect me in Charleston by the middle part of April.” The letter was not signed.
Hughes could not read the first part, but he knew it was written in Spanish. Did Bennett have some unmentioned relation in Cuba? The thought worried him.
“But it may come to bloodshed,” said Bennett.
“Yes, it may,” said Hughes, returning to his seat. “And if it does, we will have to fight. Even if we lose, we may preserve our honor. But I think we may very well win a war.”
Bennett said nothing for a moment. He appeared to be collecting his thoughts. Then he stared directly at Hughes and narrowed his eyes. “Let’s talk of your inheritance, and how it may help us achieve our goals.”
Hughes slanted forward. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want a war.”
“I know that.”
“I want a death. I want a murder.”
Hughes sat up sharply. “What are you talking about, Langston?”
“I’m talking about Abraham Lincoln.”
In the darkened hallway outside, Lucius pulled his ear back from the door. The sound coming from within was muffled, but Lucius was certain of what he had heard. Without making a sound, he walked to the steps and crept downstairs. He was glad Nelly was not waiting for him.
FIVE
FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 1861
Rook’s head jerked up as his horse came to a halt outside the Winder Building on Seventeenth Street. The animal seemed to know instinctively where to stop. It had become used to the routine since the inauguration: a daily walk around Washington’s rutted roads and cratered streets so that Rook could inspect the bridges leading into the city and the pickets that guarded the roads to the north. Rook had become used to it as well, so much, in fact, that he had nodded off a couple of times between his last stop, at the Chain Bridge out past Georgetown, and his destination here.
He hopped down from his mount and yawned. It was dusk when he had set out, and since then the sun had gone down completely. Lights glowed from inside the building in front of him. An attendant materialized to take the horse.
“I expect to be here a little while,” said Rook. He gazed across the street at the War Department and the Navy Department buildings. They were small-perfectly adequate for peacetime, thought Rook. Beyond them, he saw the president’s mansion. There were lights on over there too.
“Colonel!”
The call came from across the street. A figure waved to him and approached. When he got closer, Rook recognized John Hay, a personal secretary to the president.
“Good evening,” said Hay, holding out his hand. Rook grasped it. “How are things with you?”
Rook had met Hay only a couple of times previously and never at any length. They certainly were not intimates. He was struck by the young man’s familiarity-he behaved as if he and Rook were old friends.
“I’m well, but a bit tired,” said Rook.
“Aren’t we all?” laughed Hay, who certainly did not look the way Rook felt.
Rook didn’t know much about Hay. He had come with Lincoln from Illinois, and he actually lived in the White House so he could be near the president at all times. He was perhaps twenty-two years old.
“Maybe I’ll get some sleep after my meeting with General Scott,” said Rook. “He wants updates every day on Washington’s military preparedness.”
“Isn’t it past his bedtime?”
Rook smiled. Everybody knew Scott’s reputation.
“The general may not be in the springtime of his career,” said Rook, “but he’s a hard worker who demands a lot from the officers beneath him.”
“Let’s hope your meetings are more productive than mine. I spent half of my day dealing with government accountants. In the White House budget, there’s only one slot for a secretary to the president. But there are two of us.”
“Sounds like a headache.”
“It’s a battle between the president’s will and an administrative won’t,” said Hay. The line seemed well rehearsed. Rook got the feeling that he was not the first person to hear it.
“Are they trying to make you quit?” asked the colonel.
“Not at all. They’re giving me a clerk’s position in the pension office and assigning me to the president’s staff.”
“Isn’t that the same thing as putting you in the White House?”
“Absolutely. But on paper there will still be just one secretary. It seems that in Washington, the purpose of paperwork is to obscure reality. At least that’s my lesson for today.” Hay rolled his eyes for effect.
Rook chuckled. He found himself liking the young man.
“I’ve detained you long enough, Colonel,” said Hay, starting to go back across Seventeenth Street. “If you ever need something, you know where to find me-not in the place where my paperwork says I should be!”
Rook watched him go. Then he turned and walked into the Winder Building. The gas lighting and marbled wallpaper were rarities in Washington. It was one of the most attractive interiors in the city. Rook immediately smelled dinner. Scott often ate at this hour. From the room outside Scott’s door, Rook inhaled the aroma of roasted chicken. He was one of the few people allowed to walk in on the general unannounced, though it was hardly a surprise for him to show up right now, when he was expected.
“Hello, Locke,” he said to Scott’s personal secretary, Colonel Samuel Locke, who was sitting at a desk by the entrance to Scott’s room.
“Good evening, Colonel,” said Locke, who did not look up from the newspaper he was reading.
“Anything in the news?”
“The general is waiting for you.”
Rook did not like Locke. The man was a dandy-the kind of officer who was always looking at a mirror to make sure his buttons were shiny and his hair was just so. Rook could not imagine Locke in the field, doing the rugged work soldiers were meant to do. Yet the modern army needed all kinds, including paper pushers whose place was at a desk rather than in a saddle.
What really bothered him about Locke was the rudeness. Why was it so difficult for him to engage in small talk for a minute or two? Rook knew the answer: he had the job that Locke had wanted for himself, the responsibility for Washington’s defenses and the president’s security. Rook could not actually imagine Locke in that role. Apparently Scott could not imagine it either, because he was the one who had passed over Locke in favor of Rook. For his part, Locke seemed able to forgive the general and chose instead to channel his anger toward Rook and create a rivalry where none, at least in Rook’s opinion, needed to exist. Rook found the behavior both baffling and irritating. At least Locke made no attempt to hide his resentment. The worst enemies were the ones who pretended to be friends.
On the other side of the door, Rook found Lieutenant General Winfield Scott removing a napkin from his collar. The old man was still chewing but wiped his mouth and took a sip of wine from a glass that was almost empty. A plate piled high with bones sat before him. It appeared as though he had just devoured an entire chicken all by himself, which didn’t surprise Rook at all. The man’s meals were always feasts.
The general’s face was bloated and his body, enormous. It was hard to believe this fat giant was the same commander who had cut such an impressive figure in Mexico. Scott always had been a big man-he was six foot four and one-quarter inches tall, as he often reminded people. Yet the years were not kind to him. He was now so large that he could not mount a horse, and his carriage had to be specially designed to ride low to the ground because the general was not able to lift himself into anything higher. That little mountain of chicken bones on his plate, thought Rook, was not going to make it any easier.