The First Assassin (27 page)

The elder Leery was a trader who dealt extensively with commodities from the South. He came into frequent contact with men from the region and learned much about life in a part of the country he had never seen with his own eyes. It gave him tremendous sympathy for the Southern cause. One day a conversation with a visitor from Charleston turned to photography—and it did not conclude until after they had walked to the shop where the young Leery coordinated sittings for customers and took photographs that were ultimately credited to the owner of the studio. Within a week, the three men had settled on a plan: the father and his friend would invest in the son, who would start a new studio in Charleston, which had not yet embraced photography with the enthusiasm of Northern cities.

At first, James did not want to go. Unlike his father, whose livelihood depended on a thriving Southern economy, James detested the South and its culture of forced servitude. He believed slavery was immoral, corrupting both the lives of those in bondage and the souls of the men who kept them there. He attended abolitionist meetings and subscribed to William Lloyd Garrison’s newspaper,
The Liberator
. He felt a strong sense of guilt over the fact that his prosperous upbringing—which included a good home, an expensive education, and the ability to shirk his father’s profession in favor of the photographic arts—had been made possible, in part, by the product of slave labor. The idea of living in the South to provide a service to the people who cracked the whips did not appeal to him.

Yet his love of photography was strong, and the opportunity to run his own studio proved too tempting to resist. He resolved that he would indeed go to Charleston and take pictures of planters and their families—but that he would also work against the slave system. His business thrived from the start. Leery resolved to use the money the planting class threw at him to purchase the freedom of young slaves whose whole lives lay in front of them. This was how he came to know Marcus, his studio assistant. He bought him at auction, took him back to the shop, announced to the startled boy that he was free—and offered him a job.

Leery’s reputation for charity spread quickly through Charleston’s large community of free blacks. It later became known to many of the city’s slaves that he was a friend. When a runaway knocked on his door late one summer night, he consented to give the man some money. A few weeks later, another runaway showed up and Leery agreed to harbor him for a few days. To the whites who ruled Charleston, Leery was an eccentric Northerner who provided a unique service. They had no idea of what else he did—and he was always cautious about doing too much.

Through the grapevine of slave gossip, Nelly heard a story about Leery buying a one-way boat ticket to Boston for a light-skinned runaway who was able to pass as a white person. She did not know whether to believe any of it. She wondered whether Leery really worked in cooperation with local slave catchers with the aim of spreading rumors among the slaves and drawing out the fugitives. Yet such a trick would work only once or twice before Leery was exposed as a fraud. So far, that had not happened.

Then something incredible took place. One day, Leery was standing at the doorway to his studio as she walked by with Benjamin. The photographer called her over and struck up a conversation. Nelly was shocked because outside the immediate circle of people she served, no white person had ever done this before. Leery brought her in his shop and showed her his equipment and samples of his work. She was suspicious but interested—and then astonished when he asked her whether Benjamin might be purchased for the purpose of setting him free. Would she inquire with Mr. Jenkins and let him know?

That would have been about three weeks ago—and Mr. Jenkins was still out of town, probably not returning except for a brief visit in May or June. In the meantime, her view of Leery clarified. There must be something to the stories about him, she realized. Nelly had known that there really were white people who opposed slavery. Abraham Lincoln was one of them. She had heard that some white Southerners wanted to see the slaves let go—mainly small farmers who resented the power of the large plantation owners. She had even heard how a handful of white people actually helped slaves escape to the North through something called the Underground Railroad. But she had never actually met any of these people—or at least, did not think she had met any. Until she met Leery, that is.

And so she took Portia to Leery. They arrived in the afternoon. Leery was busiest in the autumn and winter, when Charleston’s social season was in full swing. He had a few jobs now, but not many. Much of his current income came from selling small reproductions of South Carolina’s secessionist heroes, such as P. G. T. Beauregard, the man who had opened fire on Fort Sumter earlier in the month. Images of Jefferson Davis were popular as well.

When Nelly and Portia arrived, Leery rose from behind a desk where he had been cleaning lenses.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Benjamin mentioned a package, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. Have you had a chance to speak with Mr. Jenkins?”

“No, and I don’t expect to see him for a few weeks.”

“If you prefer, Nelly, just let me know when he’s back and I’ll approach him myself.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Leery. Thank you very much.”

“So what brings you here?” he asked, looking at Portia.

“This is my friend, Portia,” said Nelly. “She’s in a bit of trouble.”

Leery glanced out his storefront window. Nobody was there. “What kind of trouble?”

“I’ve run away,” said Portia.

“I see,” said Leery, rubbing his chin. Nelly could see he was trying to decide how much he could reveal about himself.

Portia spoke up. “I can’t stay here in Charleston. I gotta get to Washington, and I gotta get there fast.”

Leery raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was an extraordinary request.

“Something like that takes time and planning—and it’s a long way to go and very hard to get from here to there without being caught. Washington isn’t the best destination either. They allow slavery there, you know. It would make more sense to get you on a boat to New York or Boston. You could try to settle in one of those cities or even go to Canada.”

“No, Mr. Leery, Washington is where I gotta go. I have a message to deliver to somebody there, and getting it there quickly will help all the slaves.”

“Well, this is a first,” said Leery. “I’ve done a few small things to help slaves here and there. I know there are a few stories about me going around. Many of them are nothing more than fairy tales, though a few of them approach the truth. I’m sure Nelly has told you what I’m about. They are modest measures, Portia, and they’re the only things that help me tolerate the sale of these obnoxious little mementos.” He pointed at a display holding the pictures of Beauregard, Davis, and the others. “There is a kind of poetic justice in thinking that the sale of these images will help me free people kept in bondage.”

Leery snickered at the thought of this. “But you are not asking me to purchase your freedom,” he continued. “You present a different type of problem. I wish I could just give you a horse and tell you to be on your way. The boats are fast, but I wouldn’t recommend stowing away right now—certainly not a woman on a ship full of men. But even if that were a risk worth taking, I don’t think it would work. With all this talk of a naval blockade, the ships heading out of port are crammed full of goods—there probably isn’t a nook or cranny anywhere in their holds for a person like you.”

“Ain’t there somethin’ we can do?” asked Nelly.

“I’m thinking,” said Leery, staring at Portia. “You’re not very big, are you?”

“What do you mean?” said Portia.

“You’re not a big person. Have you ever heard the story of Box Brown?”

“Who?”

“Henry ‘Box’ Brown, a slave who lived in Richmond, Virginia, about ten or twelve years ago.”

“No.”

Leery looked at Nelly. “I haven’t either,” she said.

“His story hasn’t been told very much down here. That’s because the white people don’t want word of it leaking out. Box Brown is pretty well known in the North, though. He lived with a cruel master who sold Brown’s wife and children to another owner far away—Brown had to watch them march off in chains with the knowledge that he would never see them again. That experience convinced him to escape. He didn’t think he could evade the slave hunters, so he came up with an ingenious plan. He met with a carpenter that he knew he could trust and they manufactured a special box, two feet by two and a half feet by three feet. They lined the inside with a thick cloth, punched a few small holes in the sides, and loaded some provisions. Then ‘Box’ climbed into his box. The carpenter nailed it shut, wrapped it with a few hickory hoops, and shipped his human cargo to Philadelphia. One day later, Brown emerged from his container in the offices of an antislavery society.”

“He was alive?”

“He was worn out and sore—but definitely alive. I think he lives in England now.”

“You tryin’ to say somethin’, James?” asked Nelly.

“A package leaving here by train this evening probably would need until Wednesday morning to make it to Washington. You can never tell for sure how long it will take. This is only worth doing, Portia, if you’re absolutely certain that you want to go through with it. I would estimate that the risks are quite high and failure a very real possibility. But I’ve actually got a box in the back room here that might do the trick…”

Portia watched him go through a doorway on the back wall, chattering without stop. For the first time in days, she smiled. She knew her blisters were not going to get any worse.

TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1861

The bookshop of French & Richstein sat on Pennsylvania Avenue, just off Twelfth Street and in the heart of the downtown business district. In addition to books, it sold stationery, pens, ink, and just about anything having to do with the written word. Periodicals were an important part of the business too, especially newspapers from New York. These were generally regarded as better than the ones produced in the capital. They arrived by train each day and went on sale by late afternoon, in time for people to buy them on their way home from work. Yet no papers from New York had passed through Baltimore since the weekend, putting a nasty dent in French & Richstein’s revenue flow.

As Philip French unlocked the door to his shop early in the morning, he wondered if a train would make it through before the sun went down. Fewer people had bought books since the start of the secession crisis. Many more of them, however, were buying the daily and weekly publications. These sales did not make up the difference, but they certainly helped. French did not welcome the prospect of these falling off as well.

Lots of businesses had suffered in recent weeks. There had been a flurry of economic activity around the time of Lincoln’s inauguration, when the city swarmed with members of the new Republican Party celebrating their victory and trying to get jobs in the government. Each day since then, the city had seemed a little emptier. There were soldiers, but they were not customers. The departing long-time residents nevertheless provided a unique opportunity for French & Richstein because many of them decided to sell their book collections. French’s partner, Norman Richstein, had spent a good portion of the last several weeks appraising and purchasing the libraries of people leaving town. The sellers essentially bet against Washington, or at least Washington’s continued normal existence. French & Richstein gambled in its favor. This made Philip French nominally for the Union, though his feelings were not strong. He was perfectly willing to stock secessionist newspapers from Richmond in his shop as long as there were buyers for them. He just wanted to continue selling books, and he was for whatever made that possible.

As the day’s first customer walked through the front door, French hoped the morning would get off to a good start. The tall, sandy-haired man headed straight for the bookshelves and started to examine titles. French became hopeful. This was the best sort of customer for a business that relies on repeat visits: a new one.

French knew that book buyers were often shy people who would rather read a printed word than exchange a spoken one. Strangers made them feel especially uncomfortable. He wondered if his new customer was that sort of person. The man had made only the briefest eye contact when he entered the store. Still, the proprietor wanted to extend some kind of greeting. “Please let me know if I may be of service,” he said at last.

Mazorca looked up from an open volume. “I will,” he said, flipping through the rest of the pages of the book in his hand and putting it back on the shelf. He ran his finger along the spines beside it, settled on another thick tome, and slid it off the shelf. He tested its weight and studied it from several angles. He pulled back the cover and appeared to assess the texture and strength of the individual pages.

French watched Mazorca do this with several volumes. He thought it was one of the most unusual book examinations he had ever seen. It was not obvious to him that his customer had even read the titles of the books. He certainly wasn’t reading the words on the pages. He seemed to be judging the books by their material quality instead of their literary content, which, he thought, was rather like judging the taste of a wine by the shape of its bottle. Yet his customer accumulated a small stack of books under his arm. French was grateful for that.

After about twenty minutes, Mazorca approached the counter.

“Did you find everything?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mazorca placed five oversize volumes in front of French. Four were in excellent condition. The last one was in dreadful shape, with a cracked binding and loose pages stuffed between its covers. French was a bit embarrassed to see that it had been sitting on one of his shelves. It was a copy of Schiller’s plays and criticism, in the original German.

“Sorry about the condition of this one,” he said as he totaled Mazorca’s bill. “I don’t believe we have another copy.”

“I’ve been looking for it,” came the reply. “I would have taken it in any condition.”

French was a bit surprised by Mazorca’s choices. In addition to Schiller, there were two Bibles, a lavishly illustrated guide to American birds, a novel called
The Mysteries of Udolpho
, and a copy of the new Dickens book. French liked to comment approvingly on his customers’ purchases, even to the silent types. When he added the Bibles to Mazorca’s tally, he settled on something to say.

“Ah, yes. The good word.”

Mazorca smiled, though French was not sure it was for his benefit. “The last word,” he muttered, looking at the book rather than its seller.

French totaled the bill and Mazorca paid it. “Thank you very much. I hope we will see you again,” said French, really meaning it.

“You may,” said Mazorca, walking to the door. Before stepping out, however, he turned back to French. “By the way, I thought I might try to have the Schiller book repaired by a bookbinder. Can you recommend one?”

“Of course,” said French. “Try Charles Calthrop. He’s just a few blocks away.”

French gave Mazorca the address and directions. A moment later, Mazorca was gone. French did not notice a man with a bushy mustache standing across the street. Neither did Mazorca.

Portia tumbled onto a hard surface—and nothing had ever felt quite so good. After spending the first leg of her journey upside down, she at last lay on her side. She had not planned on comfort while pressed into her small crate, but she had expected the porters at the railroad station in Charleston at least to have seen the words Leery marked on the outside of her box in big black letters: “This side up.” There were even arrows pointing in the right direction in case the loaders could not read. Whether they failed to see Leery’s instructions or simply ignored them hardly mattered now. It just felt good to be off her head.

She knew it was daytime because a thin ray of light streaked though a tiny hole in her box. But she had no idea whether it was morning or afternoon, or even where she was. Leery had told her that she probably would be loaded off and on trains a couple of times before reaching her destination—he had mentioned Wilmington and Richmond, but these names meant nothing to her.

Nelly had raised plenty of objections—starvation, suffocation, and so on—but Leery had an answer for each one. When Nelly finally consented, he packed Portia into a crate with a sack of water, a dozen biscuits, and a pillow. He also bored a few small holes around the box to ensure that she would have enough air to breathe. He even gave her a gimlet in case she needed to create more holes. He sealed the box so that she could open it from the inside.

For Portia, the decision to follow the example of Box Brown was easy. It represented her best chance of getting to Washington in a short amount of time. It carried obvious risks—discomfort, delay, discovery—but so did the alternatives. Portia had heard stories about slaves in places like Maryland and Kentucky running through the woods to freedom in the North, but they really did not have very far to travel. From South Carolina, an overland trek would be long and hard, and the odds of success incredibly slim. Not only would Portia risk getting caught, but she would also risk arriving in Washington too late. A refusal to take chances guaranteed failure. And so she had gone into the box.

Portia could not have been off the train for more than a few minutes when she felt herself moving again. Then her box was lifted and placed down somewhere else. It was not long before she heard a train whistle and felt that same sensation of momentum that she had experienced upon leaving Charleston. She was cramped and sore, and the light through her hole had disappeared. Yet she did not care—this time, at least, her handlers had paid attention to Leery’s instructions. Portia was right side up.

Charles Calthrop knew he was out of place in Washington. Most of the country’s high-quality artistic bookbinders were in New York, where they operated close to major publishing houses and the center of national wealth. For three decades Calthrop had labored among them, restoring frayed family Bibles and designing ornamental covers for the vanity books of socialites who mistook themselves for poets. Work was everything to him, and he was proud of what he did. He often signed his volumes in a discreet place when he was particularly satisfied with a result, as if he were a painter.

By the late 1840s, a growing portion of Calthrop’s business was coming from Washington. It had started with a single senator who wanted to collect several of his own speeches and writings in attractive volumes for friends and supporters. Through word of mouth, Calthrop eventually became Washington’s favorite bookbinder, even though he did not live there. Over time, Calthrop decided to move closer to his clientele. So the gray-haired bachelor moved to Washington and opened a small shop on the second floor of a K Street building, near the corner of Fourteenth Street, in 1855.

For Calthrop, a busy day was when a visitor climbed the stairs to his shop and he also received an inquiry through the mail. That was fine with him. Bookbindery was a lonely occupation that required a tremendous amount of patience. Calthrop enjoyed nothing more than the solitude of several quiet hours spent fixing small cracks and waiting for glue to dry before proceeding to the next step. The arrival of customers often bothered him because they interrupted his work—even though he knew they were the people who provided him with the ability to continue doing what he loved most.

When Mazorca walked into the shop with an armful of books just before lunchtime, Calthrop set down a tiny blade he had been using on an old volume of Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
, owned by a cabinet secretary. He hoped this man would be the day’s only business.

“May I help you?” sighed Calthrop, not moving from his seat behind a table.

“Your services have been recommended to me. I have a book that would benefit from restoration.”

Mazorca placed the Schiller book beside Calthrop. The old man picked it up and cradled it gently. He flipped it over several times. Then he opened it and studied the pages.

“You have good taste,” he said. “I am a great admirer of Schiller’s. There aren’t many other people in Washington who know much about him.”

Mazorca simply nodded.

“
Sprechen sie Deutsch
?” asked the bookbinder.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you speak German? Apparently not.”

“No, I don’t. This book is for an acquaintance.”

Disappointed, Calthrop returned his gaze to the book and sighed again. “Its condition looks worse than it really is,” he said. “A few minor repairs should do the trick. Unfortunately, I’m a bit behind on several projects right now. I’m not sure how soon I could give it attention.”

“I was thinking about trying to fix the book myself. Would you be willing to show me what needs to be done and sell me the tools? I’d be happy to pay you for your time as well.”

Calthrop thought it was an odd request. He did not want an apprentice peering over his shoulder. He did have some spare tools, though. He always had more tools than he needed. Selling them to this fellow might not be a bad idea—and getting paid for a short lesson on top of that made additional sense.

The bookbinder studied the Schiller volume again, this time more intently. “Here is how I would approach the problem,” he said, outlining a strategy that would take three days to complete. For a half an hour, Calthrop described what to do and showed his student how to use several tools. When they were done, Mazorca had a small pile of knives, glue, and ribbon. They settled on a price—one that Calthrop found extremely pleasing.

“Please come back with additional questions as the need arises,” said Calthrop, surprising himself with the offer.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. You’ve told me everything I need to know, Mr. Calthrop.”

“Well, feel free to return.”

“I will,” said Mazorca, turning to exit.

“There is just one more thing, sir.”

Mazorca turned around. From his look, Calthrop could tell his customer desired to leave. But a question nagged him. “Are you from Cuba?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d wager that you’re from Cuba.”

Mazorca froze. “What makes you say that?”

“I can hear a touch of Spanish in your accent, and specifically a Cuban dialect.”

“You are mistaken,” said Mazorca, coldly.

“Have you at least spent time there, or somewhere else in Spanish America?”

“No.” This time Mazorca was more insistent. “Not Cuba.” He pursed his lips. He looked annoyed.

Calthrop felt a need to explain. “I’m very sorry. I was a musician in my youth, and my ear catches small variations in sound. I would still be a musician today, except that I heard music better than I played it. I’m left with this ability to pick up tiny differences in the way people pronounce words. I’ve made guessing where people are from into a little hobby. I’m usually pretty good at it. I’ll feel better if you tell me you’ve at least spent some time in Cuba.”

“Where I’m from is no concern of yours.” Mazorca’s glare unsettled Calthrop.

“I didn’t meant to offend…”

Mazorca was gone before Calthrop could finish his sentence. The old man was glad this customer had purchased supplies rather than dropped off a book. He did not want to see him again.

“What’s this?” asked Rook, pointing to the stack of books piled next to Springfield on his bench in Lafayette Park. The colonel had slipped away from his sandbagging command for a short meeting. He bent over and looked at the spines. There were five copies of the same book:
The Pickwick Papers
, by Charles Dickens.