The First Assassin by John J. Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    “It is good to see you, Colonel,” said Scott, swallowing his last bite. “Let me get this cleared.”
    He picked up a small bell on his table and rang it. A black valet shuttled into the room and began to remove the dishes and tablecloth. He was about to take the wine glass when Scott reached for it and gave him a hard look before pouring the last contents down his throat. Scott wiped his mouth again and placed the glass and napkin back on the table. The valet snatched them up and was gone in a flash.
    “Please, sir, have a seat,” said Scott, gesturing to where Rook always sat.
    The general pushed his own chair away from the table. Grunting as he struggled against his own bulk, he succeeded in moving it less than a foot. Rook had seen this before too, and once he had offered to help Scott position himself in his seat. The old man would have none of it. Attendants had surrounded him for years, and accommodations a more vigorous man would not have needed now filled up much of his life. Even the president occasionally would come down from his office in the White House and meet the general in the driveway so that Scott would not have to strain himself getting in and out of his carriage. Even so, there were a few things Scott insisted on doing without assistance. Making himself comfortable in a chair was one of them.
    When Scott finally settled in, he took a deep breath. The effort had exhausted him. At last he looked at the colonel.
    “What is the latest?” asked Scott.
    Rook delivered his standard report. “There continues to be civilian movement out of the city,” he said. That morning, two families had departed the city by the Long Bridge, both bound across the Potomac River for Richmond. Their carts were stuffed with their belongings, indicating that they did not intend to return for quite some time, if at all. As was the custom, the soldiers guarding the bridge questioned them.
    “One fellow didn’t want to talk,” said Rook. “The other one admitted that he wanted to get out of the city because he did not support the new administration and the types of people it has brought here.”
    “This is typical.”
    “Yes, an ordinary day at the bridges.”
    “Is there more, Colonel?”
    “I lost another lieutenant today,” Rook said.
    Civilians were