He found himself in a foyer stocked with plain furnishings and badly in need of a paint job. A small chandelier drooped down from the ceiling. Through a glass screen held in place by an iron frame, this entranceway merged into long hall that ran left and right. A soldier sat on a wood bench against one of the walls. His eyes were closed.
Mazorca entered the hallway and turned to his right. He knew the East Room, presently occupied by Lane’s men, was located in the opposite direction. He saw a grand staircase at the west end of the hall. At the foot of the steps stood three well-dressed ladies listening to a man conclude a short lecture.
“Does anybody have a question?” asked the man.
“Let’s move on, Senator,” replied one of the ladies. “I’m anxious to see the portrait you mentioned earlier.”
“Then we shall continue our tour in the State Dining Room.”
With that, the little group filed into a room just to the left of the staircase. When they were out of sight, Mazorca reached the base of the steps and peered into the room they had entered.
He was surprised at its small size, perhaps thirty feet by twenty-five feet. An elegant table with fourteen chairs sat in the middle. Mazorca wondered if the president ever entertained more than a few diplomats, cabinet members, and congressmen at one time. He had thought about this dilemma only for a moment when the senator, standing before a fireplace, began a new speech.
“And here it is, above the manteclass="underline" the famous painting of our first president, by the extraordinary Gilbert Stuart.”
The picture was almost life-sized, and it showed a white-haired, red-cheeked George Washington dressed almost entirely in black. His face was expressionless. He held a sword in his left hand, and his right one appeared to beckon.
“You all know the story,” said the senator. “As the British marched on our capital almost half a century ago, the brave Dolley Madison refused to leave her mansion until she received assurances that this portrait would not be left behind. When unscrewing it from the wall took too long, she ordered the frame broken and the canvas removed. This heroic little woman got away just in time-and she saved a national artistic treasure from redcoats who would have been happy to see it swallowed in flames.”
One of his listeners let out a sharp gasp. Mazorca turned and walked away. At the opposite end of the hallway lay the East Room, and he made for it. He passed by a few closed doors on his right. On his left, he went by the entranceway where he had come into the building, and then a small staircase leading upward.
The East Room was large, with high windows on three sides. It was perhaps twice the size of the state dining room and appeared both majestic and worn out. The ceiling’s white paint had chipped in one corner, and a panel of grimy yellow wallpaper sagged in another. The signs of former grandeur were everywhere: three massive chandeliers, a detailed floral carpet, several marble fireplaces with tall mirrors hanging above them, thick maroon curtains covering the windows, and regal blue chairs. Gold trim seemed to decorate everything.
The most striking features, though, were the East Room’s occupants: the so-called Frontier Guards. About thirty of them lounged around playing cards or snoozing. They had transformed the room into a campground. A pile of backpacks rested to one side, and rifles stacked upright formed teepees beneath the chandeliers. The men were not responsible for the room’s faded appearance, but their presence had faded it further. The carpet wore a coat of dry mud. Pipe smoke drifted upward. Mazorca figured the dilapidation here was like the growth of a plant: too slow to watch minute by minute, but rapid enough to measure over the course of days.
After observing this scene, Mazorca left the East Room and returned to the stairs by the doorway. He began to climb them, half expecting to be stopped by a soldier. The mansion’s security-or, more accurately, the almost total lack of it-astonished him. He had visited capital cities in other countries before and had seen official residences. He was not sure he knew of a single one that was open to the public, let alone one that permitted the free movement he enjoyed here. Some Americans, he knew, would applaud this as a praiseworthy feature of their democratic nation. Mazorca believed it was sheer foolishness.
He arrived in an office vestibule on the second floor. There was nobody in it, but he observed a small population of men lined up in an adjoining hallway, which he could see through a pair of glass doors. There were probably fifteen of them, all civilians. To his left was an open doorway into another room. Just as he was about to enter it, a tall, skinny man appeared on the threshold. He turned around, his back to Mazorca, and said, “When may I expect to hear something?”
“That is impossible to know, Mr. Meadors,” came a voice from inside the room. “Please be patient. We will inform you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Hay.”
Then Meadors nearly collided into Mazorca. He quickly apologized and departed into the hallway, where the crowd began to pepper him with questions. Mazorca paid them no heed and walked into the room Meadors had exited.
There was a window at one end and two doors along each side. It resembled a short corridor more than an office. By a desk in the middle stood a young man with a thin mustache, studying a set of papers in his hand. When he saw Mazorca, an expression of irritation crossed his face.
“I thought I told everyone to stay in the hallway until you were called,” he scolded.
“Please excuse me,” said Mazorca, “I thought-”
“Oh, never mind. The last one just left. But you probably know that. I’m John Hay, the president’s secretary.”
Hay held out his hand, and Mazorca shook it. Then a bell rang. Hay seemed to expect it.
“He’s ready,” said Hay. “You can expect to have about five or ten minutes. Come this way.”
Hay stepped to a mostly closed door on the north wall, pushed it open, and walked in. Mazorca followed. Before he even knew where he was, he heard the secretary say something he scarcely believed.
“Mr. President, your next appointment is here.”
Tate walked to the stables at the Stark farm, near the scene of the previous day’s violence. He had spent the night there with Hughes, who remained bedridden on the orders of a doctor summoned in the middle of the night. The young man would recover, but it would take time. Tate now wanted to get back to Bennett and let him know what had happened. It was a grim task, but he was determined to do it.
As he approached the stables, with his dog by his side, one of Stark’s slaves saw him.
“Jeremiah,” he shouted over his shoulder, “get Mr. Tate’s horses.”
A boy emerged with a group of horses: the one Tate had ridden, the one Hughes had ridden, and the two taken by Joe and Portia, which they had picked up along the way. A large sack drooped over the back of one animal. Inside of it was Joe’s cold body. Tate thought it made sense to have it buried on Bennett’s land.
Tate paid no heed to Jeremiah until the dog sniffed him and let out a yelp. Then it started barking wildly at Jeremiah. Tate hollered for silence. The dog obeyed but continued to stare and flick its tail. Tate thought the dog’s behavior was a clear sign of recognition. He studied the boy and wondered.
“What’s your name?” asked Tate.
The question startled Jeremiah. He was not used to white visitors taking an interest in him, except to scold. Tate repeated the question, and Jeremiah answered it.
“Have I seen you before, Jeremiah?”
“I don’t know,” said Jeremiah, a bit tentatively.
“Have you seen me?”
“Before today? I don’t think so.”
The dog remained agitated. It grumbled and refused to take its eyes off the boy.
“Do you know anything about runaways? If you know what’s good for you, answer truthfully.”
“I haven’t seen any.”