Pride

It was the third of July in 1850, and there was little escape from the scorching heat that plagued the city of Washington D.C.. Men, women, and children alike found refuge in the shade, waving fans in a futile attempt to cool down.

Beneath a large, secluded oak tree two men were resting in the shadows. A burly man was leaning against the trunk, his black hair matted to his forehead from sweat. The second man was sitting on the ground with his back against the tree. A top hat was carelessly tossed on the ground beside him, revealing that he had a full head of sandy brown hair, and his eyes were closed.

The standing man, Martin Wright, waved his hand in front of his face, though it did little to impede the heat. A few minutes passed where the two men did not talk. The only sounds that could be heard were carriages rolling through the uneven street, and the faint sound of voices carrying over from a conversation between two people speaking a few yards away.

Finally, the man on the ground, a lanky man by the name of Andrew Clarke, broke the silence. “I’m going to kill the president.”

Wright’s hand stopped abruptly, and he looked down so quickly that his neck nearly snapped. Clarke’s position hadn’t changed an inch; his head was still resting against the trunk, and his eyes remained closed. Thinking the heat must’ve been causing his mind to play tricks on him, Wright asked, “Did you say something?”

“I’m going to kill Zachary Taylor,” Clarke repeated slowly, his low voice rumbling with irritation.

‘Apparently my mind isn’t the only one being negatively affected by the heat,’ Wright thought, although he’d never dare share the notion with his temperamental friend. “And how do you plan to do that?” he asked, hoping his tone didn’t sound as mocking as it felt. If it did, Clarke didn’t notice; in fact, Clarke didn’t bother answering at all. “You’ll be executed for sure,” Wright continued. “Hung, probably…I can think of better ways to go.”

“You’re speaking as if I’m going to be caught,” Clarke said. His tone sounded casual, as if he was talking about something as trivial as the weather, not murder--let alone the murder of the most important man in America.

“Oh, you’ll be caught,” Wright stated definitively, though he doubted his comrade’s sincerity in his ‘plan’. Instead, he wrote the conversation off as Clarke’s way to pass the time. “Definitely.”

“Not,” Clarke declared, finally opening his eyes and looking up at Wright, “if they don’t know he was murdered.”

****

Gravel crunched under Andrew Clarke’s sturdy black boots as he walked through the dull streets of D.C.. He held his black top hat in his hand, because it was much too hot to actually wear it.

His beady brown eyes scanned the storefronts until they landed upon a drugstore a few feet ahead of him. His step took on a purposeful pace as he marched to the drugstore. He pushed the door open to reveal that the shop was nearly empty.

The old Irish shopkeeper was sitting behind a counter, waving his hand to create an artificial breeze. “Afternoon Andy,” the shopkeeper greeted him with a smile, exposing a few missing teeth.

“Afternoon,” Clarke replied absently, his eyes searching the shelves of the store. He walked slowly about, scanning shelf after shelf.

The shopkeeper stepped around the counter. “You looking for something, Andy?” he asked. “Maybe I can help you find it.”

Clarke bit his lip, trying to decide whether or not it would be a good idea to ask outright. Figuring the shopkeeper was either trustworthy or not very bright, Clarke replied, “Yes. I’ve got a problem with a rat, in my house. I tried to ignore it, but you know how they are.”

The shopkeeper nodded in commiseration. “Troublesome little buggers.” He walked a few feet away, shuffling through bottles. Only a few seconds passed before he returned to Clarke’s side. “Here we go,” he said, holding a bottle out to Clarke. “Arsenic. That should do it for ya. I wouldn’t use all of it though, unless you’ve got yourself a mighty big rat.”

Clarke took the bottle, holding it up to observe it. Smiling, he replied, “Oh, it’s a mighty big rat. This should do the trick just perfect.”

****

Martin Wright ignored the sound of crackling pebbles as he strolled across the street, deftly avoiding a carriage as it raced passed him. He walked resolutely to a pub on the other side. When he reached the inside, he pulled up a stool on the end of the bar.

He tapped his hand on the wooden surface of the bar to get the barkeep’s attention, using his other hand to push his damp black hair from his face.

“Hey Marty,” the barkeeper--a stocky blonde man named Carter Evans--greeted cheerily. “You’re usual?”

“I’ll take anything, so long as it’s cold,” Wright replied.

Evans chuckled as he pulled a bottle out from under the bar and began pouring the amber liquid into a glass. “In this weather, don’t count on it. Room temperature is the best we’re going to get.”

Evans set the glass down in front of Wright, consequently causing some of the drink to splash out of the glass. Wright shrugged. “Ah, well. Hopefully this weather won’t be lasting much longer.”

“I agree,” Evans said, folding his arms and leaning against the bar’s surface. “A few more days of this is about as much as I can stand.”

Wright nodded in agreement, knocking back his drink.

****

The lethargy that had settled over the city of Washington D.C. certainly hadn’t reached the White House, and the president’s secretary, Lewis Walker, was running around the President’s home frantically. Finally, he found what he was looking for. “Mr. President, we’re late,” he said, wringing his hands together.

Zachary Taylor buttoned the last button of his black, high-collar suit as he turned to his Chief of Staff. “If you can’t be late once in a while, what’s the use of being president?”

“Sir,” Walker said, still continuing to wring his hands, “it’s the ground breaking of the Washington Monument. It’s vital that you be there.”

“And I’m ready,” Taylor said. “So there’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s quite hot out today--”

“As it’s been for weeks,” Taylor interrupted.

“Maybe you should wear something a bit cooler,” Walker finished, acting as if Taylor hadn’t interrupted him.

Taylor held up his hands. “You’re the one always telling me I should be more conscious about my appearance. I think this looks rather nice.”

“I just thought--” Walker began, but he was again interrupted, although this time it wasn’t by the president.

“Are we ready to go?” the First Lady, Margaret Taylor, asked, peeking into the room from the doorway.

“Yes, ma’am,” Walker said, giving the president’s black coat one last dubious glance before following him out of the room.

****

Andrew Clarke went unnoticed as he weaved in and out of people surrounding the area that would soon be the new monument to honor the young country’s first president. He paused, hiding unobserved, behind a few people when he spotted Zachary Taylor, who was sitting with his wife and munching on a bowl of iced cherries. A pitcher of milk was sitting on a table next to the president, and there was a full glass sitting just an inch away.

Clarke skillfully maneuvered around the people, still unseen by anyone, to get as close to the table as possible. He used his left hand to push people out of the way, and his right hand was in his pocket, fingers wrapped tightly around the bottle he’d purchased from the drugstore the day before.

As he neared the table, Clarke removed the bottle from his pocket. His grip on it was so tight that his fingers were unnaturally white. He waited, so quietly that he barely dared to breathe, until the president turned to share a few words with his wife. Then he swiftly and expertly slipped the lid off the bottle, pouring its entire contents into the president’s glass of milk.

And then he slipped away, as unnoticed as when he’d snuck into the crowd.

****

Lewis Walker and the Taylors unwillingly bounced up and down as two horses pulled their carriage away from the monument site back to the White House, the uneven gravel crackling irritatingly beneath the wooden wheels.

President Taylor put his hand to his stomach uncomfortably, shutting his eyes for a moment. Walker narrowed his eyes. “Are you alright, sir?” he asked.

Taylor grunted. “Yes, I’m fine. Just…tired.” Walker eyed him suspiciously, but decided to let the issue slide, and they rode the rest of the way back to White House in silence.

****

Martin Wright hated jokes, but at this one particular moment he wished what he was hearing was a joke. “What did you just say?” he asked, hoping his ears were playing tricks on him.

A boy who looked to be around eighteen or nineteen was standing before him, looking absolutely exhausted--as if he’d been running all over the city. Judging from the next sentence that came out of his mouth, Wright didn’t doubt that that was true. “President Taylor is dead,” the boy panted. “He died this morning.”

Wright’s face--which had been a vibrant shade of pink due to the heat--paled considerably. “You’re joking.”

The boy shook his head earnestly. “No, it’s true. Dead as a doornail. Five days ago--after the ground breaking of the new monument--he’s complaining about a stomach ache, and today…,” the boy snapped his fingers, inadvertently causing Wright to flinch, “dead.”

Wright’s mind traveled back to the conversation he’d had just six days before with Andrew Clarke. “How?” he asked.

Shrugging, the boy replied, “Dunno. I heard it was something ‘bout his stomach, but somebody else said he overheated…Some natural cause, you know.”

“Natural?” Wright repeated, thinking about Clarke’s words: ‘Not if they don’t know he was murdered….’ “You’re sure?”

The boy shrugged again. “Sure I’m sure,” he replied assuredly . “I mean…there are a few people that are saying conspiracy, that he was poisoned. But they’re all wack-jobs…there’s no way.”

Wright just stared, wishing he could be as sure as the boy in front of him.

****

Andrew Clarke winced as he was slammed into the side of a building by his much bigger, much stronger friend. “Did you do it?” Wright demanded.

“Do what?” Clarke asked calmly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Don’t act coy with me,” Wright said angrily, holding Clarke against the wall by the collar of his jacket. “Did you kill him?”

“Kill who?” Clarke inquired, the hint of a smile now a smug grin. Wright slammed him against the wall again, becoming more irritated.

“Did you kill the president?” Wright asked, his voice rising in volume with each word.

“Lower your voice,” Clarke hissed. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

“I’m not so sure that’s a bad idea right now,” Wright replied, tightening his grip on Clarke’s jacket.

“You won’t tell,” Clarke stated firmly.

“Oh? And why not?”

Clarke chuckled, causing Wright to feel a little uneasy. “You’re my accomplice, Marty. You’re just as guilty as I am.”

Wright frowned, but didn’t loosen his hold on Clarke’s jacket. “I’m not the one who poisoned the president.”

“You knew I was going to do it,” Clarke replied coolly.

“I thought you were joking!”

“Please,” Clarke said, still smiling. “You could’ve stopped me and you chose not to. If you go to the authorities, they’ll arrest you too.”

“That’s a lie.”

Clarke tilted his head in what would’ve been a shrug had he not been pinned to the wall. “Fine. Go to the authorities. And after you do, you’ll be hanging right next to me.”

“You just expect me to let you get away with it?”

Shaking his head, Clarke answered, “No. I know you’ll let me get away with it.” Wright’s hands dropped to his side, and Clarke straightened his jacket. Leaning in close, Clarke whispered in Wright’s ear, “You don’t have a choice.”

Clarke gave Wright a pat on the back that any innocent bystander would’ve taken as a friendly gesture and walked away, leaving Wright standing speechless in the sidewalk, watching as Zachary Taylor’s assassin walked down the street.