THE PINKERTON FILES FIVE-BOOK BUNDLE

Lincoln and the Golden Circle, Bucholz and the Blockade, A Burglar’s Fate, The Sleepwalker and the Spy, and The Boatman and the Traitor

David Luchuk

CONTENTS

Lincoln and the Golden Circle

Bucholz and the Blockade

A Burglar’s Fate

The Sleepwalker and the Spy

The Boatman and the Traitor

THE PINKERTON FILES, VOLUME 1:

Lincoln and the Golden Circle

David Luchuk

Repository Note:

In 1956, the Library of Congress reclaimed a vast archive containing over 50,000 files from the permanent records of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. The diplomatic dispute that preceded this handover is well documented. Suffice to say, after years in bureaucratic limbo, the Pinkerton papers were in diabolical condition. The challenge of organizing and interpreting their contents was huge. To manage this task, records were prioritized based on authorship. Those written by founder Allan Pinkerton or his sons were fast-tracked. More than fifty years have passed. It is now clear that placing such a strong emphasis on authorship caused the Library to overlook an important portfolio prepared by a clerk and buried in administrative files. What follows is the first entry in a private dossier hidden over a century ago by Allan Pinkerton himself.

—Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist – United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

April, 1861

Secrecy is a necessary thing. I learned that a decade ago as a policeman in Chicago. Now as head of an Agency with clients throughout the Union, I see the truth of it every day. Without secrets, a thousand swindles well up around our necks.

How can I betray the secrecy of my own detectives? Discretion is so much a part of our business that we keep separate files for all cases; one with facts that send a suspect to jail, the other with clues and private notes retained for future use. No one is allowed to open those sealed records without an agent’s consent, not even me.

I am about to breach that ethic. I have ordered my assistant, Ginny Higgs, to copy the private files of several detectives and record my comments in her hand to conceal the violation of Agency rules. This is my chance to turn back.

I face a difficult decision. One of my detectives has been killed. Another was dishonored. A young agent betrayed us at Harrisburg. A dangerous fugitive is at large. These are serious matters but they do not, on their own, compel me to open the files.

What does compel me is the fact that our troubles stem from a single investigation. A plot is mobilizing against us. Its goal and actors are unknown but it is all tied to a case involving President Lincoln.

In February of this year, 1861, I was called to Philadelphia for an interview with Mr. S. M. Felton of the Philadelphia-Wilmington-Baltimore (PWB) railroad. PWB connects Washington to every other city in the Union. Mr. Felton believed extra effort was needed to protect the line.

I understood his worry. As a young man, long before the technological marvels of today, I straggled into the United States from a life of toil in Scotland. There were no trains or money back then. Tradesmen hauled goods by wagon and were paid in barter.

We needed capital and transport but no sooner did the first banks and railways open then every blackleg in the West came to rob us. Bringing down one such rascal led to my first criminal case. I duped an old brute into enlisting me in his plan to rob a train.

Today, such a scheme would be suicide. We would be crushed in the revolving platforms that carry the new mammoth trains. I have seen trains fitted with factories piled on markets held together by homes of gypsy families. It is ludicrous to think that two men could stop such a machine.

At the time, the plan was feasible. It was also tempting. Thoughts of sudden wealth came to mind. Five hundred dollars was promised. It was a small fortune.

I pushed these ideas aside and had the man arrested. That moment of temptation launched my career.

Fourteen years later, business is even more dependent on railways. Industrial breakthroughs in the Union north have led to much innovation.

Railway interchanges stand four stories tall and revolve in perfect counterbalance. Trains are equipped with smelters, assembly lines, warehouses, shops and houses jutting at every conceivable angle. Each line is as vibrant and unique as any city I have known.

In the face of such ingenuity, and armed as we are with equipment provided by clients in those industries, I am proud that my Agency protects rail lines such as PWB. I made fast arrangements to meet Mr. Felton in Philadelphia.

Had my trip not been interrupted, would the current crisis have arisen? It is pointless to wonder. The fact is I was forced to stop in New York City.

My son Robert was on a fool’s errand. I scarcely believed the telegraph Ms. Higgs placed on my desk:

Sir : - With regret, I must inform that Robert Pinkerton has been apprehended in the commission of a crime against the Northern Central railroad company. I anticipate communicating with you prior to registering charges.

John A. Kennedy – Superintendent, Metropolitan Police of New York City

My trip to New York was restless. An old injury makes it difficult for me to sit for long stretches without feeling the pinch of extra weight. I also found it hard to keep still because I was angry with Robert for falling into the hands of that pretender Kennedy.

At Union Station, I looked for a private carriage so I might collect my son without losing my dignity. Any hope of that was dashed on the platform. Kennedy waited to greet me in formal dress as though he was receiving a medal.

The sympathy on his long face conveyed his joy at my predicament. I decided that, should he attempt to embrace me in fatherly distress, I would hasten my reunion with Robert in custody by shooting the man.

Self preservation is an instinct in all species. Kennedy touched the brim of his cap. The decorum was less for my benefit than for the amusement of his officers.

Kennedy’s life purpose seems to involve little more than being a nuisance to my Agency. New York attracts the most degenerate criminals yet the master stroke of his career was this business with my son.

“Welcome, sir.” He said. “If only you were visiting under more enjoyable circumstances.”

His bow was too hitched not to have been practiced.

“A man always takes some joy in assisting his son.”

“Indeed. No matter how embarrassing the situation.”

“Do you mean for me to be embarrassed, Superintendent?”

“Far from it. Helping one’s child is always respectable.”

His falseness gave me a chill. I retaliated.

“From your insight on children, I take it you have been blessed with the family you have desired for so many years.”

Officers shuffled. Kennedy twitched.

“No, Mr. Pinkerton. My wife and I have yet to be so blessed.”

“Pity that a man with such intuition should not have children of his own.”

A moment passed in silence.

“I would like to speak with my son.” I said. “Will you and your officers kindly escort me to the jail?”

This brought Kennedy back to life.

“No need, Mr. Pinkerton. I thought it best that you not risk being seen by newspapermen in this city. Your reputation, sir.”

Policemen behind Kennedy parted on cue to reveal a decrepit black wagon in the parkway. Travelers and gawkers circled. Reputation, indeed.

Officers cleared a path through the crowd, ordering all within earshot to make way for the Police Superintendent and Detective Pinkerton. My name skittered from mouth to mouth. Kennedy’s triumph was complete.

The smell of the wagon was alarming. For the first time since leaving Chicago, I felt a pang of concern for the welfare of my son.

Kennedy threw back the doors. A wave of stale air rolled out. I held a sleeve over my mouth and nose. Inside, Robert sat under a barred window. Tailored suit wilting in the heat, he was trim in all the places I had become soft.

Robert refused to acknowledge Kennedy or the fresh air. Defiance was a trait of his that worried me now that his ambition was on the rise.

“Robert.” I said.

He stood. Here was my eager boy. A lick of hair hung from the widow’s peak that formed when he was young and never filled in.

I wondered, at that moment, if my sons ever had a real choice in following me to this profession. Seeing Robert in that sweat box, I realized that under all my other encouragements, I drove the same message over and over.

This is the life. This is our life.

Robert’s skin was smeared with grime. A beard had started to grow in patches. Here is where the life had taken him.

“The machine, Papa. He has no right to seize it.”

He was right. I assured Kennedy by telegraph from Chicago that Robert would return to New York at a later date to face charges. Kennedy had agreed on the condition that documents taken from Northern Central be retained as evidence. The punch card adding machine in Robert’s possession at the time of his arrest was not part of the deal.

“Our equipment, Mr. Kennedy.” I said.

Officers approached, dragging a crate. The machine inside was disassembled.

“Naturally, we had to take a closer look.” Kennedy said.

“And what did this destruction of private property allow you to discover?”

Kennedy raised his eyebrows and feigned regret. His was the sort of acting that ended in a shower of tomatoes.

“Our investigation is ongoing.”

It was obvious that they had smashed the machine, an advanced prototype on loan from one of my clients, for fun. They were gorillas.

Robert stepped from the wagon. I felt an urge to put my arms around him. Robert offered his hand instead.

“Thank you, Papa.”

Our reunion was the last point in the investigation that felt under control. This is where I will start searching for evidence of the plot against us.

The secret files are in my hand. My decision is made.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

February, 1861

I can hold my breath for two minutes. That’s what I learned suffocating half to death in custody.

Father urges us to track new discoveries in these papers so there it is: I held my breath longer than expected. I hope someone will find that illuminating.

Everything else was lost. Kennedy’s monsters sawed the adding machine to bits. All I had left were broken gears and cracked vials. I also had a seething father.

Our rented office on the train to Philadelphia felt smaller than the police wagon. Father wouldn’t ask the question on his mind so I pressed.

“My presence in New York was legitimate. Kennedy had no reason . . .”

“You were in the office of a former Agency client. We have no active files with Northern Central. I don’t see how the word legitimate applies.”

“We should be investigating them.”

Father looked at the liquor cabinet as though he wished he were a drinker.

“We never explained how so much money failed to be recovered from heists on that line. There are discrepancies in their manifest.” I said.

“There are always discrepancies in a shipping manifest. You don’t catch a criminal by opening a filing cabinet.”

“I saw a pattern. The machine was filtering records. Given time . . .”

“Given time, you would have ended up in prison.”

So far as Father was concerned, his was the last word. That suited me. I didn’t want to spend the trip arguing about the use of data versus a detective’s intuition.

Father understands criminals. That doesn’t mean his is the only way to spot a crime. It is maddening how many times we’ve had this debate.

It didn’t help that I used the punch card machine. Father loves that we have access to this kind of equipment. It raises us to the status of our Union clients in the north. If only he admired the genius of these machines the way he claims.

I retrieved the adding machine’s switchbox from the crate. The mechanism was intact. I slid it out of the casing and unfolded a top layer of brass switches. They kneaded together, layer on layer of intricate gears. Thousands of individual switches overlapped in a tight weave.

Set correctly, the machine could complete long mathematics. It could also recognize patterns in number sequences. I fumbled at first setting the parameters. Once I asked the right question, the machine ate through those rail manifests in New York.

I unfolded more layers and found something unexpected. An iron plate was bolted through the middle. I attached a vial of compressed steam that Kennedy’s idiots had tried to crack open. They would have blown a hole in the city if they’d succeeded.

With the vial in place, the switchbox came to life but the iron plate blocked gears on one half of the machine from connecting with those on the other. This struck me as odd and not at all what its designers intended.

Father crossed the office and looked out a grimy window.

“Detective Warne is here.”

Kate Warne is the only female agent in America. It is obvious that Father trusts her more than me. I don’t mind. She has earned her position as his weapon of choice.

I set the switchbox aside and watched her approach. Our train rumbled between three levels of track, one above and two below. Kate was a quarter mile behind on the lower tracks, maneuvering her interceptor amid the chaos.

The interceptor rides a single rail. It hops on or off at any point, locking into place on rows of opposing magnets. With no friction, it can easily out run a train. Reclined in the saddle, an agent can winch steel arms out to grab tracks or swing between levels.

I tried to catch a train riding one of those buggies once. The only thing I intercepted was the back end of a piece of track.

Kate is a marvel. The train beneath us lost ground as we passed through an interchange. Kate sped toward it, climbing out of the saddle to allow the interceptor’s frame to split in half. She crawled amid the moving pieces, which folded and reassembled on the underside of the track. All the while, she accelerated.

We emerged from the interchange and looked back. Still below, Kate had safely flipped upside down and was riding beneath the rail. Our track unhitched to change levels. With devil’s luck, Kate piggy backed the rise and slid next to us when two platforms overlapped.

The axel of her interceptor folded to a right angle and she advanced beside our window. Walls shuddered as magnets took hold. In no hurry, Kate tapped on the glass.

Father swung the window open and she climbed inside, dressed in thick black leather. She peeled away a cap and goggles. Her hair was darker and shorter than when I last saw her. It framed her pouchy cheeks, suiting her.

A flash of yellow below the collar hinted at a business-like outfit underneath. Father loves that attention to detail, especially from her.

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

April, 1861

What place could such a comment have in a detective’s case file? Robert wonders why I am compelled to seek Ms. Warne’s counsel instead of his. Leave it to my son to make an invasion of his private thoughts a waste of time.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

February, 1861

A girder hit while I was taking off my gear. The impact almost knocked me down. That would have been a sight: heels up with the Pinkertons standing over me.

I was sure I’d given the interceptor enough clearance. At the next interchange, a platform swung into its nose and magnets tore the window away.

Robert laughed. If it had been his brother, William, this would have made me furious. Coming from Robert, I saw the humor.

Mr. Pinkteron fell into the liquor cabinet. A bottle tipped over, poured down his sleeve and emptied out his cuff. I was frozen in place, one leg still in the leather coveralls. Whiskey ruined my outfit. It was a funny sort of scene.

Mr. Pinkteron didn’t think so. He was still scolding Robert when a porter arrived to ask after our safety.

Whatever Mr. Pinkerton doesn’t see in Robert makes me wonder what he does see in the rest of us. We skulk after suspects trying not to be seen. Robert hides in plain sight if at all.

I heard from Ginny that, at Northern Central, he walked up to the front door, picked the lock and marched to the file room. I am surprised Kennedy caught him.

Robert fussed with gears in his lap while Mr. Pinkerton and I discussed security at PWB. Tensions between the north and south have escalated since the election of Abraham Lincoln last November. With his inauguration approaching, Mr. Felton worried that PWB would be sabotaged to unsettle the capital.

These concerns were valid. I said so to Mr. Pinkerton on the train and to Mr. Felton once we arrived in Philadelphia. Our operatives in the south had not seen secessionist rebel William Hunt in New Orleans for months. There was reason to believe that Hunt would strike against the north. PWB made an attractive target.

“How can these people not see: they have more to lose fighting the Union than they have to gain separating from it?” Felton said.

He was wide across the chest, a rail operator raised to an executive role. It didn’t suit him. He marched around his office picking up items and putting them down again. I cringed watching a once-competent man reduced to this anxiety.

Mr. Pinkerton tried to will a sense of calm over the room. It was the patience of a doctor waiting for leeches to clean a sick man’s blood.

“Is there some final grievance yet to be resolved with the south?” Felton said.

“Final grievance?”

The voice was so like Mr. Pinkerton’s that both Felton and I looked at him. He glared over his shoulder at Robert.

“We haven’t addressed their first grievance yet.”

“That will do, Robert.” Mr. Pinkerton said.

Felton slapped his desk.

“What on earth do you mean, sir?”

“You know precisely what I mean.” Robert said. “Rich men in the south will fund saboteurs until rich men in the north share their technology.”

Robert lifted the brass mechanism from his lap as an example.

“Let them invent something of their own. Their industries are hopeless. So long they uphold that blasphemy of a slave trade, there can be no innovation.”

“They say that until you share your innovation they have no choice but to uphold the slave trade. It is you who must see: these troubles aren’t ending, they are beginning.”

Mr. Pinkerton stood, skin on the back of his neck turning red.

“We are not politicians.” He said.

Facing away from the client, Mr. Pinkerton put his hands on Robert’s shoulders and pressed his son back down into a chair.

“We are detectives. If you wish to lobby for closer relations with the south, Mr. Felton, I can recommend you to a statesman. If you wish to protect your rail line from William Hunt, or anyone else, we are at your service.”

“Yes, yes. By God, let’s focus on the matter at hand.” Felton said. “How do you propose to help me, Pinkteron?”

“I have a man in the south. He is one of my best.”

“Good.” Felton moved items on the left side of his desk to the right.

“Timothy Webster will get to the bottom of this threat against your business.”

Felton reached out to shake Mr. Pinkerton’s hand.

“Webster is too old.” Robert said.

Interrupting his father on the verge of closing a deal with a client like PWB was rash. It bordered on self destructive.

I took a long look at Robert; his eyes, his mouth, his breathing. I wanted to record in my mind the way this recklessness looked so I could recognize it in the future.

Robert seemed very calm. After a few moments, I no longer remembered why I had looked over. I was just staring at him.

Mr. Pinkerton smiled at Felton. It was a closing-all-accounts sort of smile.

“Pardon me.” He said.

Mr. Pinkerton opened his arms like he meant to gather Robert and I together. He made little swiping gestures with his hands and ushered us toward the door.

When Robert and I were in the waiting room, Mr. Pinkerton walked back to the office and closed the door without saying another word. I should have been angry.

I wasn’t. I wanted to make a joke of it, like Robert might.

“No one can accuse you of nepotism.”

“Yes, my takeover of the New York office will have to start at the ground floor.”

I laughed and didn’t stop to think about what I said next. I just said it.

“You’re right about Webster.”

“I’m glad you see it that way. Hunt attracts young toughs to his gang: the Knights of the Golden Circle.” Robert made a bogey man face.

“Even the name.” I said. “Only a boy could see himself in it.”

“Hunt isn’t in the city. He’s moving over open country. That’s rough. It takes slow minds and strong backs. I don’t see Timothy Webster fitting in.”

“I know someone who might. Have your father or brother ever told you about Ernie Stark? He isn’t with the Agency. Stark picks his own cases.”

“They aren’t sharing tips at present, no.” Robert said.

“Stark goes deep. That’s his reputation.”

“And you can convince my father to switch from Webster to this freelancer?”

“That’s not what I had in mind”

“You were thinking . . . hire Stark even with Webster on the case?”

It was a good question. What was I thinking?

“You give him orders to stay out of Webster’s way.” I said. “If he gets close to William Hunt on his own, maybe he can protect PWB should things go wrong.”

The door opened. Mr. Pinkerton emerged alone. He’d made his deal with PWB.

For the second time, I tried to read Robert’s face. Would he consider getting in touch with Ernie Stark?

Robert folded the broken gears into their housing. He gave nothing away. We didn’t even make eye contact. For the second time, I caught myself staring at him.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

February, 1861

Father made a mistake. Webster is a fine man but sending him to infiltrate the Golden Circle was absurd. On the train leaving Philadelphia, I saw how I had pushed him to this bad decision. That weighed on me.

Father runs the Agency as he sees fit. He can pretend that America will find peace by protecting north against south. He can cherish the status of equipment we borrow from clients while ignoring its usefulness to detectives. He takes his own advice.

But he was a cad on the train and a bully in Philadelphia. All joking with Kate Warne aside, Father will never grant me control of the New York office. He would sooner pull me out of the field altogether.

When the meeting with PWB was at its most delicate, I attacked. That brought out the worst in him. It was punch and counter punch.

PWB will blow up in Father’s face. I’m sure of it.

If I apologize, he will make me swear an oath to his views on all things. I would do it if I thought he might also change his stance on sending Webster after William Hunt.

He won’t. Stubborn goat.

If I do nothing, Father will walk into failure. If I grovel at his feet, he will stay the course. If I contact this man Stark, what then?

I don’t know. There is a chance of it doing some good.

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

April, 1861

I remember. Ms. Higgs brought me the errant shipping receipt.

Robert charged a delivery to one of our accounts but provided no case number for the expense. This was his sloppy way of (how did Kate Warne describe it?) hiding in plain sight.

Even a superficial follow up would have led me from the receipt to the gauntlet to Stark, but I had no patience left. Three weeks had passed since Robert’s outrageous conduct in Felton’s office. Litigators from New York were pressing him to return for trial. I couldn’t bear to be any more involved in his affairs.

I told Ms. Higgs to treat the bill as an accounting error and shift the expense to petty cash. Then I put the whole issue out of my mind.

The blood and shame are on Robert. Not on me.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

February, 1861

It was screwy business from the start. A contract was posted by one of the sons, not the old man. I should have seen trouble coming. There’s enough double talk when a job starts. I don’t need any surprises in the blasted paperwork.

Robert shipped me the melee gauntlet as soon as I signed the contract. I didn’t ask him to. That boy loves anything with a bolt in it.

I set up in Charlotte to start. It took a week to get outfitted for a trip to the woods. This gave me time to argue with shopkeepers and scrap with drunks for my cover: hair trigger prospector out for a quick score.

The gauntlet was dangerous. Carolina is southern territory and nothing marks you as a Union man like that kind of equipment. Late at night in a hotel room with no windows, I figured out how to make it work.

At first, I fastened the sleeve of rods and pulleys backwards. When the springs wound, it folded my arm the wrong way. After bandaging my elbow and getting the gauntlet set straight, I could see why Robert was keen. It’s a useful thing.

Clenching a fist winds the forearm and gives a hell of a wallop when released. Twisting down at the wrist winds the springs back to lift a huge load. I ruined that room figuring out what it could do.

The next morning, I rode out. My overcoat concealed the gauntlet. A new hat was like a beacon. It announced inexperience. Locals mocked me in plain view. That was perfect. My cover was solid.

I took well travelled roads to Asheville near the Appalachian corridor. Hunt would be on that route north. I wanted to be seen by unfriendly Carolinians heading into the deep rough.

A gang like Hunt’s would run out of cash and supplies, forced to forage as they got close to Union states. His roughs would have to steal their wares. Hunt might not like robbing from southerners but, being that close to the Union, his boys would be ornery enough to leave him no choice.

This was my way in. I made camp and took care to look ill suited. Wasted supplies and a poor shelter were signs of an amateur in trouble. After a few days, I heard Louisiana whispers in the dark. I was an easy mark.

The first trick I ever learned in this business was to wake from a dead sleep without moving. I left a bag of coins on a tin plate on the far side of camp. One of Hunt’s boys picked it up. A piece of silver fell from the hole I cut in the bottom.

Coin on tin was plenty loud enough to wake me. I opened my bottom eye.

“Wait for Saul.”

This was the one who’d picked up the coins.

“There’s more’n just that purse I bet.”

The second man was bigger. He wore pants barely long enough to cover his knees. He came toward me while the others held back.

Always put the bait far from where you’re sleeping. It splits the group.

In the days I spent waiting for these thugs, I practiced a bit of misdirection. Reaching with my left hand, as though snatching at a weapon, I slipped into the gauntlet on the other side.

The big man landed on my left arm so hard he raised a cloud. With the gauntlet on my right, I grabbed him by the belt and threw him into a tree. That caused a stir.

Two of the others rushed. The first raised a club over his head. I let him get close then drove a spring loaded fist into his chest. He spun off gasping for air.

This left me open to a boot in the neck from the next man. He didn’t kick me flush but was close enough that I tumbled back. He was on top, coming down hard with his knees. I rolled us both and scrambled to my feet.

In the commotion, I didn’t even realize that I had picked him up. I looked around before noticing him in my hand. I slammed him into the embers of the fire.

The last one ran off. No doubt he would be back with Saul, whoever that was.

I made a snap decision. I took off the gauntlet and hid it in the woods.

When Saul showed up, I was tying down the three left behind. Saul held his buck knife low and kept a ready position with every step. He’d killed in the wild.

“Got no more money.” I said.

“Got my boys.”

Saul was close enough to be a danger in no time.

“You can have them.”

I stepped back. Saul sliced their bindings.

He must have expected his boys to spring to their feet. When they slumped over, he took a look at the damage I’d done.

“They get kicked by a mule?”

“Mostly they just fell over. It happened real fast.” I said.

Saul stepped toward me, knife still poised to strike. I took a chance.

“It’s a shame.” I said. “Your boys stole my money before I could give it to them.”

“You feelin’ generous?”

“I know what a man looks like when he’s at odds with the law. You’re runnin’ from the Union. Or toward the Union, maybe.”

“What d’you know about it?”

“Just what people say. That the north’s lookin’ for trouble and the south’ll give it to them.” I said. “You look like plenty of trouble to me.”

The fat man huffed to one knee. Saul turned a cold eye and straightened his posture. He didn’t seem like he was going to kill me anymore. Not that second.

“We square then?” I said.

“Sure. ‘Cept for three boys you broke, we’re all square.”

“Maybe I can make that up to you.”

Saul’s disdain for his crew was stronger than his distrust. Maybe bringing an extra body back was better than just a bag of coins. For whatever reason, it worked.

Saul had me abandon most of my gear. We packed up the few useful items that were left and I followed him into the black forest.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

February, 1861

This pressure from New York makes no sense, not for a charge of misdemeanor mischief. Stewards from the Attorney General’s office arrived in Chicago today.

Warrant in hand, they could have advised us they were coming and, at their leisure, collected the punch card machine Father and I took from Kennedy. Instead, they barged in and treated the whole thing like a raid.

Ginny Higgs reacted like the Agency was being shut down. Poor thing.

The machine was still in pieces. No one had looked twice at it since we returned from Philadelphia. Everyone agreed; the crate hadn’t even been opened.

Stewards leaned on me. Had I tampered with the crate since we got back to Chicago? It was perfectly true to say,

“I haven’t touched it.”

Did I understand that my statement would be entered into the legal record?

“Of course.”

It was over in a blink. They kicked a fuss then left with a crate full of useless bits.

I went back to my desk. Father had moved me to an office near the storage garage. This hiding was good for us both.

I pulled the adding machine’s switchbox out of a drawer. Undisturbed for hours, I folded enough gears away to unbolt the iron plate that cut through the middle.

Satisfying as this was, I damaged most of the switches around the bolts. There was no avoiding it. I am not an engineer. Despite these broken endings, the mechanism folded together. I attached a new vial of steam and waited.

It was a disappointment. Switches on the outer edge misfired. The minutes dragged. I considered tossing the contraption into a bin when this stuttering penetrated the inner folds and a remarkable thing happened.

Identical sets of switches on opposite sides fired at the same time. I leaned forward hoping it would happen again but saw nothing. I checked the vial to make sure it was still connected. As I set the machine back on its footing, a second burst took place.

Twice as many switches snapped into a complex geometric shape. Again, this came out of nowhere and was mirrored on both sides of the mechanism.

After another pause, gears flashed in three dimensions. Twin patterns came into contact with damage caused by the iron plate. Switches hit that area from both sides.

The narrow space left by the plate acted as a conduit. Geometric forms bent into fluid waves of clicking switches. They twisted into currents and passed through the gap.

I could no longer see discreet points of origin where bursts were formed. All the switches roiled in unison. After watching for a half hour, I attached the mechanism to a music box. I didn’t think it would play a tune. I just wondered what it might sound like.

It was awful. The cacophony broke my spell. I made up my mind to pull the leads, disconnect the vial and open some case files.

Without warning, the noise stopped. The switchbox whirled in silence then each individual note was struck in sequence. Notes were paired together and then matched with others to create new combinations. It was not musical but it was structured.

I closed my eyes. Blocks of notes were repeated at intervals. These were interrupted by shorter tones like values entered under headings on a list. The longer I listened, the more it sounded like data sets such as the ones I fed into the punch card machine in New York.

This was madness, of course. A machine couldn’t remember.

I pulled the leads. The only non-insane thing to do was discard the whole mess.

Instead, I removed the manual crank from a ledger counter and attached the switchbox. Ledger paper spun. The switchbox printed my Northern Central results.

I ignored the impossibility of what was happening and sifted through the numbers. Here was the pattern I suspected all along.

Northern Central was as prone to robbery as any other rail company. We knew that from the start. What set them apart was the fact that so much money stolen from their line could not be recovered by police or our Agency.

It took me getting arrested in New York, and discovering this switchbox on the train, but I had evidence now. Heists worth tens of thousands had taken place on Northern Central shipments. Itineraries for those trains failed to be logged in the manifest until a quarterly audit. The robberies always took place south of Union territory.

Someone at Northern Central was sending money to the South. I could prove it.

I could prove it to anyone who believed that this switchbox remembered my investigation in New York and printed the results on a ledger counter in my office. That is, I could prove it to no one.

The switchbox finished printing. It recalled the entire manifest. I had fed all the records into the machine in New York but Kennedy’s men burst in before I could read the results. I now held the last entries in my hand.

Days before I was arrested, another irregularity appeared in the manifest. A train was headed south on a long haul voyage but no money was being transported. The cargo was industrial equipment.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

February, 1861

Saul led us to base camp. It took two days of hard hiking from Asheville. There were fifty men, give or take, in the clearing.

I was wrong about the Golden Circle. They weren’t short on cash. Field cooks, all slaves, worked at fire pits. Tents were new; no rust on the poles. I didn’t hear any griping about rations. Men were well fed and in good health.

Not the slaves.

As we came in, other groups hiked out. I asked why.

“This close to the Union, slaves have a mind to run.” Saul said. “They know where we’re at and they’d finger us in a second. There’s no trusting the mongrels.”

It was savage logic. Freedom was a blot on a black man’s character.

“Also, the boys spring any traps lawmen set in our path. Teams that don’t come back, we steer clear.”

“Couldn’t those men trade on your whereabouts if they get picked up?”

“A gentleman’s honor isn’t for sale.” Saul said.

I was among gentlemen. I should have guessed.

In the days that followed, I learned why young men join gangs. They don’t do anything. Life in the Golden Circle was filled with idle time.

Slaves worked. The rest loafed.

Some passed the time playing baseball. One of Saul’s boys, the fat one in short pants, was a regular in those games. The ball players called him Pudding.

He eyed me with suspicion because Saul never credited his stories about my strength. It was a worry but baseball helped smooth the waters.

Pudding thought of himself as a stalwart. During one afternoon game, a ball was hit sharply toward him. It took a wicked carom off the grass before Pudding caught it clean. It was a fine play.

The batter was called dead, rightly so. Pudding tagged a runner who had stepped off second base and claimed the runner was dead too. The argument turned into a row.

It is in the nature of men to fight over nothing. Good agents seize these moments because a person’s reputation is built on irrelevant things.

“Both players are dead.” I said. “The runner returns only if the ball is caught on the fly.”

“Ha!” Pudding said. “You hear that? You’re out, you bugger.”

That made my peace and gave me a niche. From then on I ate, got drunk and gossiped as one of the ball players.

None could say why the gang had stopped or where it was headed. Every day a new rumor started. In the absence of useful information, I played baseball and kept my eyes open for the other Pinkerton man, Webster. He was tough to spot.

Pinkertons take a position and stick to it. Where I posed as a tippler, a fool and a sport to gain entry, a Pinkerton would get his hooks into one angle and ride it.

For a time, I thought it might be Saul. Then I watched him throttle a slave. That seemed too heavy.

Webster was hard to pick out because his cover was ingenious. He posed as a map maker. This exposed him to the gang’s top people. Webster was such an insider that the first time I saw him was also the first time I saw William Hunt. They emerged from a tent at each other’s throats.

Prior descriptions matched Hunt well. He was wiry and bald except for a crown around his ears. What struck me most was his skin. It was so taut that it looked like a larger body was trying to force its way out. His eyes and teeth seemed far too big.

Hunt wailed fists and boots down on Webster. Saul fell on him as well. Maps unrolled on the ground. A strap over Webster’s shoulder broke and his box of supplies burst open.

Bloodied, Webster snatched a small wooden case out of the spilled goods. When Saul charged, Webster held it at arm’s length and twisted the lid. A spray of white mist escaped and a metal claw opened from the bottom.

Saul ran into its grip. Webster gave the lid another twist and the metalwork clenched shut.

That was when I recognized him as Pinkerton’s man. Behind the spectacles and bow tie, it was obvious. He turned the table on Saul in a heartbeat.

Hunt lifted the supply case by its leather strap and swung the corner into the side of Webster’s head. I jumped to my feet. Pudding tugged on the back of my shirt.

“Take ‘er easy. Saul and the boss have him now.”

That the idiot didn’t realize I meant to help Webster made me realize how little would be gained by exposing myself. If Pinkerton’s man was half the agent I suspected, he would know he was alone.

Hunt bent over Saul, snared and squirming. He flipped the box’s wooden lid. With two twists, Hunt released the metal harness.

This was a surprise. Few southerners can use Union machinery.

Hunt held the contraption in the air and approached Webster, who had almost regained his wits. Hunt snatched the agent’s torso inside the metal claw.

He leaned close and said something. I was too far to hear. Then Hunt pulled the controls again and the harness squeezed Webster’s chest.

Air pressed from his lungs. His neck bulged as blood rushed to his face. Webster tried to gasp but couldn’t, like a fish on a dock. The harness closed its grip. The first pops of ribs breaking sent shudders through the Pinkerton man. His sternum was crushed and arms collapsed into the cavity. Still the machine wound tighter.

I watched him die. The least I could do was to not look away.

Hunt watched too. We were the only ones.

When it was over, Hunt picked maps off the ground. He gave Saul an order and walked back to the tent, making no effort to help the man to his feet.

Saul ran across the field. He grabbed Pudding by the shirt sleeve.

“Get rid of the body.” Saul said.

Pudding recoiled.

“The hell I will.”

“You’ll do it, by God, or . . .”

“I’ll do it.” I said.

Pudding pointed a finger as though Saul might not have heard me. So long as it wasn’t him, Pudding was happy.

“Take a slave.” Saul said. “Bury it. Not deep. This ain’t a funeral.”

Webster’s body bent where the harness cracked his spine. I fumbled with controls so others could see I didn’t know how to use the equipment. Then I apologized to Webster under my breath and dragged his corpse across the field by the feet.

Saul’s slave was a huge man. He had been lashed across the face. The newest scar was still healing, check and jaw sunken on that side.

The slave scooped Webster’s body under one arm. We hiked until I found a rock face where I thought I could find the body later to give it a real burial. Out of respect for a fellow operative, I had the slave dig deeper than he’d expected.

Webster’s twisted body didn’t fit at first. It was a terrible business.

Before covering the grave, I went through the pockets of his clothes. It was the sort of thing any Knight of the Golden Circle would have done, gentlemen that they were. I took some money, hoping the slave would see another callous southerner earning a dollar. My eyes scanned every inch of the body for clues.

What had gone wrong? Even in death, Webster knew more than me.

One of the arms of his spectacles was thicker than the other. Webster had combed his hair over to conceal it. I pulled the glasses off his face and the arm fell away, broken in the fight. A thin roll of paper slid out.

“Mister.” The slave said. “Boss said to bury you, too, if you start actin’ funny out here.”

He saw me snatch the note. I thought about the beating Saul gave one of the other slaves. I thought about this man’s mangled face. As with the gauntlet in Asheville, I made a snap decision.

“He was a detective from Chicago.” I said. “He tried to stop them, the Golden Circle. I don’t know how. It might say on this paper. It might not. What’s for sure is that I’m the only one left now.”

“The only one left tryin’ to stop boss and the others.” said the slave.

“Yes.” I answered.

“That’s why you said sorry before we drug the dead one out here.”

“Yes.”

“And why you wanted him buried deeper than boss said.”

“Yes.”

Without another word, the question was dropped.

It was hard to read Webster’s tiny writing but one segment leapt off the page.

Hunt to assault depot at Richmond. Consistent with case briefing. Northern Central train being tracked. Not PWB. Impossible to reconcile with assignment. Train not real target. Hunt mapping Presidential route. Lincoln assassination. Delaying as possible.

*   *   *

Repository Note:

It is curious to find the name Timothy Webster in these pages. Could Allan Pinkerton’s secretary have made a mistake in her transcription? This seems improbable given how many times the name appears. More likely, it is a simple coincidence. Timothy Webster is not widely known to the general public but he is familiar to scholars. He was hanged for being a double agent days before the end of the civil war. Much debate and confusion surrounds the events that led to his death. However, the historic record is clear that his execution helped shape the politics of our nation once the fighting ended. This could not be the same man. The Webster that history remembers was not a detective.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist – United States Library of Congress

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

April, 1861

Webster was murdered while a rogue contracted by my Agency sat yards away twiddling a baseball. I have little doubt that Ernie Stark is the one who later betrayed us at Harrisburg. Worst of all, Robert was the author of this nightmare.

Webster infiltrated the Golden Circle. He gained the trust of their leader, exposed their plan and delayed its execution. I am convinced that, all the while, he looked for an opportunity to send word north.

Stark could have helped by making his presence known. He was too busy, God have mercy on my son, getting drunk with the murderers.

If I had known that Robert was making a fool of me in this way, would I have risked our President’s life to save Timothy Webster? I may never forgive Robert for making me ask that question.

My answer has to be no. The moment I learned the truth about Lincoln, I was bound to participate. I opted for the only course of action that made sense at the time.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

February, 1861

Hunt and his gang were on the move. I never learned how Webster was exposed. No doubt, it was the obvious. He either lost track of his lies or was caught trying to communicate with Chicago.

The Pinkertons were in the dark as to Hunt’s plan. He meant to kill President Lincoln not sabotage a railway. I was embarrassed for them that they got it so wrong.

Lincoln was touring eastern states in the lead up to his inauguration. This was common knowledge to anyone able to read a newspaper. His itinerary was well known.

I venture that his schedule was better known than his politics. Some call him a maniac intent on destroying the south. Some call him a saint intent on freeing the slaves. Both views are wrong.

His politics are simple. He won’t abolish slavery because the Constitution doesn’t give the President that power. But he will risk war with the south to prevent the spread of slavery to new territories. He has that power under the law.

Marching with the Golden Circle to Richmond, I wondered if the men who meant to kill Lincoln understood him at all. I doubted it.

I made no attempt to break from the gang. A telegraph in Richmond would be my best chance to contact Chicago. I owed it to Webster to bar Hunt’s progress.

We saw the glow of the rail depot from miles off. It loomed high over the canopy of trees. Four levels of track ran to the building. Trains were modified inside with new cars added and various repairs completed. A thick cloud of solder rose through white light from the open roof.

Only a small portion of each train could be housed inside. More work was done on stretches of track leading to the depot. This was where the gypsies left their mark.

They added new pieces to the cars. Goods were exchanged. Households moved between barrios hanging off the side and apartments perched over marketplaces.

This was all illegal but, in practice, beyond control. There were too many of them and, in the final account, they added too much value to the business. There was a time when railways tried to regulate these people. Now, companies just lived with them.

Hunt hid his gang among the gypsies. We approached at ground level but the train Hunt wanted was on higher tracks. Security never saw us coming.

Hunt rented a loading derrick and claimed we were a work crew, paying extra to cover the lie. The derrick lifted us to a factory on the tracks above.

The smelter radiated heat. Molten copper poured from hanging pails. Up there, Hunt had no one left to bribe. His lie had run its course. An angry foreman shoved through the crowd to confront us. Hunt pushed him over the side.

That was when real violence broke out. Slaves charged toward the depot. Odd as it was to see them fight for Hunt, they would have been worse off trying to revolt.

The slave who helped bury Webster was at the front. He tossed factory men aside. Any fools strong enough to put up a fight had their heads pressed into the side of the boiler or were smashed down under his fists.

Behind him, the Golden Circle snaked through the factory. A general alarm sounded in the market. Shopkeepers gawked at the blood and broken bones. Most let us pass then went back to their business.

Security guards didn’t have that luxury. Rifle fire sparked a panic. Slaves fell under the barrage. This had been Hunt’s plan.

White guards from Union states might claim an enlightened view on slavery but, faced with a mob of black men, they emptied their rifles in a hurry. Knights of the Golden Circle leapt over the bodies of fallen slaves. Guards were caught trying to reload.

Pudding wore his cleats to the assault rather than discard them with his cap and glove at base camp. He kicked the spikes, full stride, into a guard’s midsection. He also kept his bat and swung blindly as he ran into the security detail.

Guards who thought they were responding to a minor disturbance in gypsy quarters were overrun. This opened a path to the depot.

Barging through the slapdash factory was one thing. Inside, we were outnumbered, facing armed guards on four levels who knew how to protect their perimeter. I was sure this would be the end of Hunt’s crusade.

He made a tactical error. We could never hope to overtake this force.

I was happy for it to end that way. I’d absorb the beating of a lifetime at the hands of railway goons but the plan to kill Lincoln would be snuffed.

Hunt and Saul slipped out of the scrum. They ran to the train in its paddock and climbed onto a shipping container. I heard some of the guards laugh when the pair opened a hatch and jumped inside.

Hunt could be heard yelling instructions. They crashed about for several minutes until one of the guards lost patience. He banged the butt of his gun on the container wall.

“Enough’s enough, boys.”

The container’s front end crashed onto the platform. Hunt and Saul had mounted a thresher of sorts. Long arms swept out to gather material into a grinder at its center. Hunt guided the machine above a base of swiveling wheels. Saul sat behind to lever the arms. They were protected by an iron facing that appeared to have been recently added.

Hunt had not made any mistake. He led us to the exact spot he wanted.

The thresher rolled out. I saw other machines inside the container. It was Union equipment. Saul brought four men down with a single swipe. Guards weren’t laughing any longer. The one who had goaded Hunt in the crate now yelled.

“Get a message to dispatch . . .”

Hunt crushed him. The man’s dying order sent another guard sprinting toward a tower that spanned the length of the building. A telegraph would be inside.

I gave chase. Pudding followed, thinking I would try and stop any message from leaving the depot.

The guard looked back, eyes wide with panic. I was gaining ground so quickly that when I yelled, I spit in his face.

“Hurry up!”

He and I crashed into the telegraph room. We were running side by side.

“You go first. Do it fast.” I said.

The fool didn’t understand. A moment later, Pudding’s bat knocked his head all the way back to his shoulder blades. Pudding was winded from the run but this didn’t stop him from raising the bat again and turning to me.

“What d’you mean, tellin’ him to go first?” Pudding said.

He stepped into his swing. As I braced for the impact, a black hand reached around from behind. The giant slave pulled Pudding away and slammed his skull into a bulkhead. Pudding died at my feet.

“Better get on with it, mister.” said the slave. “If you’re gonna stop the boss and all.”

My telegraph to Chicago was as detailed as I could manage. I sent it to Robert and prayed he would prove to be more than just a meddling son with a taste for metal toys.

The slave and I stepped out when the gunfire stopped.

“Follow me.” He said.

We approached the edge of the platform. Three stories below there was a suggestion of a shadow of something that might, if we were lucky, break our fall.

He jumped. I lost track of him in the darkness.

There were no screams. If he was dead, at least it was quick.

Before stepping off, I looked at the train. Hunt’s men had separated lead cars from the cargo boxes. It wouldn’t take them long to reach Lincoln.

Through the open end of the last car, sawed in half to break it loose, I locked eyes with Saul. Like Hunt to Webster, he said something to me but I was too far to hear.

I jumped from the track. That was my last act in service to this contract.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

February, 1861

Ginny Higgs knocked on my door.

“Telegraph for you.”

I had not expected to hear from Stark. I thought news of an attack against PWB would reach our offices. At that point, I would learn that Stark played some role in minimizing the damage or taking Hunt into custody.

I pictured a reconciliation with Father. I would explain my data. New views on detective techniques would be entertained. We would find common ground.

I believed those things. Maybe I am as big an idiot as Father thinks.

Robert Pinkerton: - Urgent. Depot at Richmond ransacked. Hunt has acquired a train, moving north. Webster murdered by Hunt. Learned the truth. Lincoln to be killed en route to Philadelphia. Hunt equipped with Union machines. You must intercept.

- E. Stark

It was fantastical news. I had difficulty believing one rascal from Louisiana could pose a threat to the President of the United States. I also doubted Stark. He had been recommended under duress. Maybe the case had gone too far.

Ginny Higgs screamed from the floor above. The sound of heavy boots pounded through the ceiling. Men stomped to all corners of the office. Father barked in outrage.

“Explain yourself, Sergeant!” He said.

“Get back, Pinkerton. Your boy is coming to New York on order of the court.”

The world had gone mad. That a judge in New York authorized police to seize me in Chicago bordered on slapstick.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Father entered my office and locked the door.

“Ginny has barred herself in your former quarters. They think it is you.” He said. “Our solicitor will accompany you to New York.”

I handed him the telegraph from Stark.

“Robert, this is not the time.”

He read it once then looked at me in disbelief. After a second reading, his chin dropped onto his chest.

In a sense, this was the moment I had always wanted. Webster had been killed but that wasn’t my fault. Stark had picked up the case. He sent crucial information about a plot against the President. These events stemmed from my use of the new technology.

I had been right. It broke my father’s heart.

A door splintered above. Ginny screamed again.

Father must have been tempted to hand me to police. The case would have been under his control again. The son he could no longer trust would be out of his sight.

He swept items from my desk into a bag then pushed me out of the office. We ran around a corner, past pallets of unused machines, to a loading dock in the storage garage.

“Kate Warne is in Philadelphia with Felton.” He said. “I will send word. She will be prepared when you arrive. Take the interceptor.”

“Papa.”

“Be quiet, boy.” He said. “Go!”

If I could change one decision I made during that period, I would have embraced my father on the dock. He was gone before I pulled the goggles over my eyes.

I slid the door wide enough to poke my head out for a look. The interceptor hung from the underside of a railway scaffold twenty feet above. I had to climb a fire escape, lower a causeway to the scaffold, cross it and lift myself into the vehicle.

That was the trouble with the interceptor. Everything was a hazard.

“Robert Pinkerton, halt!”

Officers on the street saw me. Guns and clubs drawn, they came running.

The fire escape was an easy scramble. A few of the officers followed. The rest stayed on the ground, which I thought was an advantage until they started shooting.

I pushed the causeway down against the scaffold. Pistol balls rang on the frame. Police reached the top of the fire escape so I couldn’t wait for shooters to reload.

I sprinted, maybe three or four steps in total, until a shot struck me on the heel. The pain was immediate. I cried out, full voice. With every stride, my leg got weaker.

Officers were already crossing when I reached the end of the causeway. My face was wet with sweat and tears. I cursed God and jumped to the interceptor. Not strong enough to lift my legs around the saddle, I hung from the controls.

Policemen reached the scaffold. There was only one thing to do.

I engaged the thruster and was off in a shot. The strain on my arms was enormous. I rode the underside of the rail as Kate had done. The vehicle was designed to flip from top to bottom automatically. I let go with one hand and twisted the control. My other hand slipped off, too, and I fell away.

The saddle tilted back as the chassis split down its center. The frame separated into halves and folded around magnets on the rail. Controls spun in their casing and locked into place. Two sides of the chassis swung together above.

I wondered whether it would make any difference if I landed on a roof or on the street. The saddle caught me square in the chest. It was the last piece to rotate into position. The saddle lifted me, upside down, and dumped me into the control panel. One of my front teeth broke against the thruster.

I collapsed into the seat. Every part of me was in pain.

Getting out of Chicago was easy. Even a poor rider like me could use the interceptor’s retractable arms to grab hold of a local train and tag along to the edge of town where the interstate network opened up.

Nervous as I was at the sight of four levels of track ahead, there was little to worry about at first. Though the rails were heavily travelled, trains only moved in one direction. The interceptor was fast enough to outrun any trouble.

The real problem was at Columbus. There would be no time to slow down and maneuver through that exchange at a comfortable speed. Only a complete stop was comfortable for me at major rail transfers.

I was there in two hours. No words of wisdom came to mind. I didn’t have a plan. I barreled to the exchange and hoped a good idea would occur to me when I needed it.

With traffic picking up, I slipped under a row of homes on the side of a slow moving train. That was my first good idea. I took a pail of dishwater in the face from an open window. Wiping my goggles, I failed to notice that the track was dropping. I tried to winch an arm to the rail above. The whole mechanism broke away with a jolt when another train crossed my path overhead.

I was rattled, clenching my teeth so hard my neck hurt. Less than a mile ahead, the straight line of track was replaced by rotating platforms. Trains charged through, not slowing down at all. The platforms spun, some rising or falling to catch trains at the lip. This was happening on all four levels. My mind went blank.

No one will ever read this entry so I admit. I closed my eyes.

I don’t know what I hit. It couldn’t have been too big because the interceptor wasn’t knocked from the rail, only off its line. Tipped over, I missed a minor turn and disengaged completely. I was flying.

The interceptor dropped two levels in a free fall. I felt the platform catch me but didn’t see how it happened. When I opened my eyes again, Columbus was behind me.

I took back all the awful things I said about God in Chicago. He is great.

It was a straight shot to Philadelphia. Being alive made me so happy that I didn’t even mind the pain. I waved at children on passing trains. When I arrived at the PWB head office, it felt like I had achieved something significant.

That feeling was short lived. Kate Warne had left me note.

Robert,

On order from your father, I have left Philadelphia with Mr. Felton. We will rendezvous with President Lincoln near Harrisburg. One of your brother’s classmates is part of Lincoln’s entourage. You are advised to stay at PWB headquarters. Felton assures that you will be safe from arrest. I will send word by telegraph. - Kate.

Kate Warne was dispatched to confront Hunt and the Golden Circle. Father preferred to trust my brother’s old chum, the cad Harry Vinton, rather than me. I was abandoned in Philadelphia.

Well played, Papa.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

February, 1861

There was no pleasure in following Mr. Pinkerton’s orders. I knew it would injure Robert to be left behind.

Mr. Pinkerton’s telegraph was a welcome surprise at first. Felton and I were having no success planning a defense for PWB. While I reviewed maps and tried to identify Hunt’s likely targets, he fretted.

Felton made it impossible to reach any decisions. PWB shares their building with a telegraph hub that routes messages across the eastern seaboard. We were able to communicate with PWB officials throughout the Union. This should have led to fast conclusions. For Felton, the extra input only added to his stress.

When I read the message from Chicago, I felt rescued. PWB was a non factor. Felton was relieved. A physical change came over him like a defendant who hears a not-guilty verdict at trial.

I knew what it would mean for Robert. There was nothing for me to do. I had been given an order not a choice.

Lincoln was in transit to Philadelphia. Mr. Pinkerton did not want to risk sending a warning via telegraph in case Hunt’s collaborators were monitoring the system. He provided me with a note, addressed to the President, which I was to present in person. This seemed a wise precaution. Mr. Pinkerton had known Lincoln for many years.

I had a few hours at most. I needed to find the President somewhere on three hundred miles of track. I had to board his train and deliver Mr. Pinkerton’s message. I was then to apprehend William Hunt carrying out his assassination attempt.

“I can get you on that train.” Felton said.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“The hell it won’t. I was a conductor, you recall. I was better at that job on my first day than I’ll ever be at this one. We connected with trains en route all the time.”

He led me out of the boardroom.

“I’ll take you up.” He said.

“Up?”

A hangar on the roof housed the PWB dirigible. A cabin with no floor hung from the underside of the balloon. I looked up to see Felton at the main console.

“I’ll fly.” He said. “You look for the President’s train.”

This seemed a redundant comment until Felton strapped me in. Bindings tight around my torso, I was suspended face down above the cabin’s open bottom. When the aircraft took flight, there was nothing between me and the city below.

Two rows of cranks were within reach. Turning them maneuvered huge glass lenses beneath me. The cabin’s open bottom was a viewport.

We were hundreds of feet in the air. I felt like I could see the whole world. The jumble of the city gave way to open countryside. In less than an hour, Felton positioned us over the rail network. He called down with instructions.

“Use the wider lenses to focus on a stretch of track then bring the small lenses into play to enhance specific sections. You can cover the most ground that way.”

The sense of vertigo induced by the lenses made me queasy.

“What am I looking for?”

“The President’s train will be short, six cars at most. It will be the only one without any of that gypsy crap all over it.” Felton said.

He was right. Lincoln’s train featured five streamlined cars with identical brushed steel exteriors. It was easy to spot amid the rest of the rail traffic.

“Keep it in view while I bring ‘er down.” Felton said. “If you can see it, so can I.”

As we descended, I pulled lenses back from the viewport. When the last of the lenses slid away, I hovered a dozen feet over the train.

I slipped my hands into gloves hooked next to the harness. A black magnet was stitched into each mitt.

“Godspeed, Miss Warne.” Felton said.

The lock released behind me and I dropped through the bottom of the cabin. Felton had positioned me over the train’s first car but, by the time I landed, wind had pushed me back to the last.

I hit hard. Magnets in my gloves held. I grinded across the roof for five yards or so then came to a stop. Hand over hand, I advanced to a porthole then climbed inside the President’s train.

Armed guards were on me right away. I allowed myself to be subdued. The beasts still kicked me in the sternum. They lifted me to my feet and took every liberty patting me down for weapons.

I was unarmed. They passed my credentials between them, not sure what to do.

“I am a detective with the Pinkerton Agency.” I said. “Bring me to Harry Vinton.”

Mention of Vinton’s name defused the situation. It took an almost jovial turn. One of the guards stifled a laugh.

“Now I’ve seen it all.” He said.

The guards stepped aside so I could climb out of the harness. My pants were filthy and my shirt torn at the shoulder.

“You sure Harry’s expecting you like this, madam?”

“Mr. Vinton isn’t expecting me at all.” I said.

With shrugs all around, they led me through the kitchen to a set of double doors.

“Harry’s in there.”

I stepped into a dining hall more lavish than any I had seen outside a society wedding. A chandelier reflected its thousand crystal pieces. Food was presented in an elaborate buffet, the old French style. A band kept the tempo for a dervish of dancing between tables, in the aisles, wherever space allowed.

This was Vinton’s world. I picked him out with a single glance. People peeled off him like molting skin. He had a tip for every man and a secret smile for every woman.

Vinton cut a path straight to me. He smiled and bowed.

“Mr. Vinton.” I said. “I have an urgent message for President Lincoln.”

“Are you the woman who fell out of the sky?”

“I am detective Kate Warne of the Pinkerton Agency.” I said. “The President is in mortal danger.”

“Let me get you a drink.”

“Sir!”

“You have nothing to fear, Ms. Warne. The President will read your message at the top of the hour. I will make it his priority. The champagne is outstanding tonight.”

Vinton took my hand. Revelers were taken aback at the sight of me.

“You look lovely, if I may say, Miss Warne.” Vinton said. “Everyone will be dressing down tomorrow to copy you, I promise.”

Had I lost my mind or did I take some comfort in this?

Harry lifted two fingers and waiters came running. When I saw the bubbling flutes, I felt a desperate thirst. He turned with glasses in hand but, looking over my shoulder, the smile was wiped from his face.

“Harry, you never cease to amaze with the company you keep.”

It was Superintendent Kennedy.

“Miss Warne, is it not?”

Kennedy smiled. Coming from a man trying to put Robert in prison, it seemed an awful smile.

“One gets so used to seeing Pinkerton or his boys.” Kennedy said. “The Father and his sons. The sons and their father. Over and over.”

“Ms. Warne has a meeting with the President.” Harry said.

“Marvelous. A toast, then. To your success.”

We tipped our glasses and Kennedy left. I asked Harry what he was doing on Lincoln’s train.

“Fraternizing with the President’s men, no doubt.” He said. “Really, Kate. I think you are the only one with actual business here.”

The welcome returned to his smile.

“I will make arrangements with the President.”

Harry walked away and I felt very much alone in the crowd. It was a strong feeling, out of proportion, at first empowering and then frightening. My palms started to sweat. I tried to clear my head with a shake but the effect was like rattling dice. I was ecstatic one moment, despondent the next.

I covered my eyes. The darkness was like drowning. I opened them again and was dazzled by everything around me. The gowns of women seemed the most beautiful objects I had ever seen. The shapes of everyday things made a kind of sense to me, as though a clock were round for some deep reason. The thought of President Lincoln made me laugh out loud. Others laughed, too. These people were the closest friends I would ever have and all I wanted was for everyone to be happy.

The next thing I remember, I was being woken by Harry.

“Come back to us, Miss Warne.”

I crinkled my nose. Crinoline under my dress tickled the skin on my legs. Jewels hung from my neck and wrists. A silk embroidered tiara sat askew on my head. That I had been drugged was obvious.

I was so angry that I could have stabbed Harry with my emerald broach.

“What have you done?” I said.

“Surely you can’t think I was the cause of last night’s . . . merriment.”

“What would you have me think, then?”

“That you were Queen for a night but back in fighting trim the next day.”

Of course that was how he would see it. My anger was replaced by panic.

“Is Lincoln alive?”

“My goodness, yes. I told you, Miss Warne. I made your message a priority. He is most grateful you are here.”

I noticed, then, that guards were running in the hall. They wore body armor.

“As Mr. Pinkerton suggested in his letter, we have prepared to split this train and send the President ahead in secret aboard the engine car.” Harry said.

“How did you get hold of that message?”

“You gave it to me quite willingly last night. Now listen, this is why I’ve woken you. Everything is in place but . . .”

Guards were shouting in the hall.

“ . . . if we send the engine car forward on its own, word will spread. Everyone knows this is the President’s train. Newspapermen follow us at all times.”

“Just cut the telegraph line.” I said.

“Mr. Pinkerton warned against that. It would be a red flag for Hunt.”

“What option does that leave? Defraud the entire telegraph system?”

“As to the whereabouts of the President, yes.”

My thoughts were still scrambled. It was a lot to take in at once.

“One more thing. It is rather important.” Harry said. “My men have spotted a train fast approaching. I am quite sure it is your William Hunt.”

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

February, 1861

My first reflex was to discard the message.

Marooned at PWB, I could not seek medical attention for my heel or mouth. I was in agony. My interest in the case waned to say the least. But Kate had never done me wrong. She didn’t deserve to be ignored.

Robert : - I pray you are still in Philadelphia. Much depends on you now. I cannot fully explain. Telegraph system presumed to be compromised. Felton will grant you access to the eastern hub. Do not cut the line. Messages must be screened. Manage however you can. Send to all: Lincoln itinerary unchanged. – Kate

The scale of what she asked was preposterous. So much so that, in a leap of backward logic, I assumed there would be some simple way of getting it done. I shared this with Felton as he led me to the telegraph office.

“I don’t know.” He said. “If there is, I’ve never heard of it.”

A whole floor of the building was occupied by the hub. Hundreds of twittering telegraphs were arranged in a grid. Narrow pathways, wide enough for a single person to pass, provided access to the machines.

Felton stated the obvious.

“For every message we intercept, dozens will go through. Even if we hired an army, there would be no way.”

A pair of wires was attached to each machine. These converged in a thick trunk that ran along the floor to a panel in the wall. The panel was barred but Felton took a small axe from the fire box and chopped the lock away.

Inside, the trunk of wires was spliced into four main conduits.

“We should just cut the damn things.” He said.

Felton reared back to swing.

“Wait.” I said. “Bring me the bag from my interceptor.”

Felton dropped the axe. He left at a sprint and returned out of breath. I reached into the bag Father had thrown together in Chicago. On principle, he would not have wanted police to seize more of our equipment. The switchbox was inside.

I limped to the closest machine and rearranged its leads. The first message that came through was an obituary. I deleted the notice and replaced it with a confirmation that Lincoln was on schedule. The next message was a business contract. To this, I replied that the President’s itinerary was unchanged. I replaced and replied to every message, sending word in both directions that Lincoln was travelling as planned.

After a twentieth message, the switchbox flared then mimicked my intervention. I pulled the leads and brought it to the wall. Felton helped me attach all four conduits.

The hub fell silent. If this didn’t work, we would have to cut the lines.

“Cripes.” Felton said. “What’s happening?”

The conduits hung in place yet the switches whirled around them like a top. Telegraph machines resumed their chattering. For the rest of the day, the only messages exchanged on the east coast confirmed President Lincoln’s itinerary.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

February, 1861

We were approaching Harrisburg when the Golden Circle came into view. I watched them from the last car in Lincoln’s train. Hunt leered through a window as though he might try to bite me from a hundred yards out.

Harry brought a pile of telegraph messages transmitted to his office. Each was a confirmation that Lincoln was travelling on schedule. Robert had done his best.

“Send President Lincoln on his way.” I said.

There was no reason to expect Harry would stay behind. Someone had to entertain the socialites on their way to Philadelphia. I was still disappointed when he left without so much as offering to help confront the Golden Circle.

Explosive charges fired and the engine car broke off. Disabled, our car was pushed back by the engine’s thrust. If we succeeded, Hunt would be in custody by the time Lincoln reached Philadelphia with Harry and the hangers-on.

Hunt’s train smashed into us. Iron spikes drove through the ceiling overhead as grapplers on their lead car took hold. I heard the shrill sound of metal sawing against metal. They were cutting through our back end.

I thought of Robert. He would have stayed for the fight. He would also have enjoyed seeing me don two melee gauntlets, one on each arm, and ultraviolet goggles to protect my eyes from the optical stunner Lincoln’s guards employed. Robert understands that this is the future of our profession.

The stunner was mounted on a tripod. Two elliptical trays revolved in opposite directions, each holding an array of polished quartz pieces, mirrors and lenses. A gas flame created a flash of blue light that was captured in the shifting glass. Staring into the light, even briefly, had a destabilizing neurological effect.

The sawing stopped and the wall fell over. The first man through looked straight into the stunner. A violent fit seized him. He tumbled to the ground, cracking his forehead on the floor.

Others followed. Men in this first wave were all overcome.

I punched the iron spikes out of the ceiling. This made me feel part of the action, which I was eager to join, but had little impact on Hunt’s boarding party. The trains were fused together and I could hear men crawling on the roof in magnetized boots and gloves.

The ceiling tore away. Gang members dropped into our car. They smashed the stunner, which cleared a path for the rest to rush through the back end.

It was a ragged bunch. Maybe I had been too impressed by the fashion and finery last night. Hunt’s boys looked every bit like they just crawled out of the forest.

We fell back, conceding the car. We also gave up the kitchen. Once the last of us ran through, welders sealed the door shut. This would only delay Hunt’s progress but we wanted to give President Lincoln as much time as possible. Every minute counted.

The same device that peeled our roof like a can made short work of the door. As planned, we set the kitchen ablaze and fell back again.

The dining hall was where we chose to fight. The stunner that Lincoln’s guards had mounted on the tripod was a trifle compared to the one built into the crystal chandelier. We pulled goggles over our eyes.

There were a dozen of us. I could have sworn I saw Kennedy amid the guards.

The chandelier spun, drowning the hall in ultraviolet. Hunt anticipated that we would make such a stand. He and his boys crossed the burning kitchen and entered with brute force. The double doors splintered.

Hunt and one of his lieutenants drove some manner of farm equipment into the hall. It raked the floor with long arms, throwing tables into the air and chasing guards out of position. One of the tables brought down the chandelier.

The goggles were useless. Our plan was already in shambles. If not for the fire we set in the kitchen, which did more to slow down the Golden Circle than anything else, we would have been in serious trouble.

I wound the gauntlets at the wrist and ran toward the machine. Hunt’s lieutenant swung the heavy metal arms against me. I caught the first at my knees and the second next to my head. Springs inside the gauntlet slowly unwound. So long as they held, I would be fine.

Hunt looked out from behind an iron plate and growled at the sight of me holding them back. He drove the machine forward, picking me off the floor. His lieutenant thrashed at the controls trying to free the arms from my grip.

I felt the gauntlet losing tension. With all my strength, I lifted the machine’s arms above my head and bent them together. We crossed in front of the bar where Harry had offered me champagne. Standing on the surface of the bar, one of our men fired a pistol shot into Hunt’s lieutenant.

He fell forward, unconscious at the controls. The arms went slack. I twisted them around each other, easy as a pair of shoe laces. Before the gauntlets lost their tension, I drove the front end of the machine into the floor.

It wrenched to a halt and its back end lifted into the air. Lincoln’s guards, good soldiers all, jumped on board even as it flipped over and crashed into the far end of the dining car. The impact tore a hole in the wall and separated our car from those ahead.

A gap opened where the crippled train had come apart. Hunt crawled from the wreckage. His gang was in disarray. Many were burned in the kitchen. None could use the Union equipment he had provided. They were swarmed by Lincoln’s men.

Worse for Hunt, he could see that the President was obviously not on the train. His assault had failed.

Hunt scanned the room with bulging eyes. I stepped forward, gauntlets wound, to take him. He clenched his fists and frowned, ready for a fight.

Beyond the gap, a sound caught Hunt’s attention. He turned his back to us and yelled down toward the tracks below. I ran at him. He took one last scowling look at me then jumped off the train before I could reach him.

I seized the frame of the dining car in the gauntlets and leaned far over the edge. For a fraction of a moment, I saw what I believed to be an interceptor vehicle racing away from us under the track.

It was gone. So was William Hunt.

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

April, 1861

In my message to President Lincoln, I promised to shake his hand when he arrived at Philadelphia. It was a great pleasure to see my friend step onto the platform and into the protection of a security detail. At last, he was safe.

Newspaper reports the following day stated that Superintendent Kennedy accompanied President Lincoln on the journey. He was even quoted in the article; something about not leaving the President’s side in a time of crisis.

Strange, that I did not see Kennedy among those milling about on the platform. It was unlike the man not to seek me out for one of our chats, particularly with Robert’s trial still looming.

Kate Warne could not confirm, with absolute certainty, that she saw Kennedy during the final confrontation with Hunt and the Golden Circle. Nor could she provide a concrete description of the person or persons who escaped on the interceptor.

There is nothing to be gained by pressing the matter. Kate Warne’s credibility has taken a severe blow.

Rumors about her behavior the night before Hunt’s raid became fodder for gossip papers in Chicago, then around the Union. For a time, it seemed any nonsense related to the assassination attempt was fit to print. The President’s attache, Harry Vinton, has challenged any claims of impropriety against her. The damage is done.

I have assured Ms. Warne that she has my complete confidence. Nevertheless, we have no basis to challenge Kennedy.

Amid these conflicting reports, I remain skeptical as to the role Ernie Stark played in the Golden Circle affair. One of Hunt’s co-conspirators, Saul Mathews, has made wild allegations against Stark from his prison cell.

The accusations of a convict can never be trusted yet his claims mirror my own distrust. Stark hijacked our investigation. He did nothing to prevent Webster’s murder and stepped out of the line of fire prior to Harrisburg.

Robert insists that I have judged Ernie Stark unfairly. Time will tell.

My son has larger worries. After a brief stay in hospital, Robert has surrendered to the court. I trust our barrister to have the charges against him dismissed.

Regardless, I expect he will stay in New York. His ambitions are well known. I am inclined to let him pursue his career in that city, even if I have no intention of turning the operation over to his control. Our relationship will benefit from some distance.

As to my violation of Agency rules and my invasion of private case files, I am now convinced that circumstances leave me no choice. It galls me to betray my people in this manner but every effort must be made to ensure that William Hunt is apprehended.

Hunt’s attack against the President was financed and supported by collaborators in the Union north. It also set events in motion that threaten the future of my Agency.

Something Robert said to Felton during our meeting in Philadelphia comes to mind. He said that our problems were only beginning. On this point, Robert and I are agreed.

I will continue using every measure at my disposal, including the files of my detectives, to uncover the truth of a plot that has been launched against us all.

These thoughts were on my mind as I listened to President Lincoln’s inaugural address in Washington. His comments to the entire nation echoed my deepest fear.

“This country belongs to the people. Whenever they grow weary of the Government, they can exercise their constitutional right to amend it, or their revolutionary right to overthrow it. In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue.”

- Abraham Lincoln, March 1861

Repository Note:

Allan Pinkerton’s secret portfolio comes to an abrupt end with this entry. I am convinced that others exist but the same steps he took to conceal them from his agents now prevent us from learning more about his activities during this important period. It is a peculiar account. Either these pages reflect the mistaken views of an elderly man losing touch with current events or they are an important find of historic significance. The reference to Timothy Webster is remarkable enough. The suggestion that President Lincoln opposed slavery on Constitutional grounds is also noteworthy. It supports the view of a small and radical fringe among modern academics. I have requested additional staff to help search through remaining documents. If there is more to Pinkerton’s cache, I will find it.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist – United States Library of Congress

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2010 by David Luchuk. All rights reserved.

Published by Audio Joe Inc.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

FIRST DIGITAL EDITION

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information is available upon request

ISBN 978-0-9867424-0-8

THE PINKERTON FILES, VOLUME 2:

Bucholz and the Blockade

David Luchuk

Repository Note:

The first set of secret files discovered among records of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency describes how Allan Pinkerton and his operatives prevented the assassination of Abraham Lincoln in 1861. Publication of this material sparked keen interest. Academics across the country have contested the truth of Pinkerton’s account. Coverage in the media has, for the most part, been skewed toward reporting on the controversy rather than the actual content. This attention prompted the Justice Department to seize the entire collection, interrupting an archival project that has run without pause since the 1950s. They claim that government relations may be damaged if more of Pinkerton’s controversial claims are made public. I find that outlandish and have submitted an objection to Justice’s interference in Library operations. Access to the material will be barred until the conflict between our offices is resolved. The following may be the last of Pinkerton’s papers we are ever able to release.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

July, 1861

The same day my son was convicted as a criminal our country descended into civil war. I am no admirer of coincidence. The timing would not be worth mentioning except that, after the verdict against Robert, there was no way to keep us out of the conflict.

I wanted no part of that fight. We sacrificed enough to save President Lincoln from the Golden Circle. Timothy Webster was killed. Kate Warne’s name was smeared. After paying such a toll, I believed we could leave politics alone.

We are not actors in history. We are detectives.

I was wrong. So wrong, that I now see no option other than to continue reading my agents’ private files. It pains me but too many questions remain unanswered.

First among them, why was the old miser Henry Schulte murdered? Odd as it seems, even months later, that case drew us into the war.

The conflict began in earnest on April 12th of this year. Fort Sumter was attacked.

The army base sitting atop an island off the shore of Charleston, Carolina, was a focal point for escalating tensions. Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana and Texas declared themselves separate from the United States.

Southerners may lack technology. They have no want of audacity.

President Lincoln promised to reinforce all Union bases within the so called Confederacy. He sent merchant ships, rather than military vessels, to deliver supplies yet his decision was still interpreted as a hostile act. The boys at Fort Sumter went to bed as representatives of lawful government and awoke to find cannons pointed at their heads.

Fort Sumter could have repelled any attack had President Lincoln been willing to deploy its full arsenal. It guards two shorelines. Its foundation is mounted on pistons that lift the installation off the peninsula a hundred feet in the air and tilt the battery’s firing platform to near 45 degrees. The result is a vast firing range that allows the cannonade to strike near and far.

Cannons in the battery rotate in a continuous ring. After one cannon fires, it swings off the platform to be reloaded and have its bearings adjusted. By the time nine other cannons discharge, the first is ready to blast again.

Fort Sumter can fire without pausing, and with great accuracy, on multiple targets. There is no Confederate weapon capable of matching its firepower.

President Lincoln did not make this strength available to Sumter’s commanders. He never authorized the use of such weapons against the rebels. I have come to understand his decision.

The President believed that the Constitution did not recognize any right for States to secede. He sought to ensure that no legitimacy was granted to the rebels as a breakaway nation. If his army exerted its full strength in skirmishes such as Fort Sumter, how could President Lincoln deny that the Union was at war with another nation? He could not.

Lincoln ordered Major Robert Anderson, commander at Fort Sumter, to stand down while waiting for supplies. Merchant ships sailed from New York on April 10th.

The leader of Confederate forces in Carolina was General Gustave Beauregard. AnH engineer by trade, Beauregard had built bases like Fort Sumter.

On April 11th, Beauregard turned fifty guns toward the island. Under the shadow of this artillery, he sent a messenger to offer Major Anderson terms for a peaceful surrender.

According to this messenger, who spoke to journalists after the attack, Anderson received him with full military rites even though the boy had been a common Union rifleman before the rebellion. The soldier placed a sheet of paper on Anderson’s desk, outlining terms that Beauregard would honour if Fort Sumter were turned over without a fight.

Major Anderson never read it. Instead, he placed his own paper over the Confederate terms. It was an offer of amnesty.

“Come back to us.” Anderson said. “You will face no court martial. You may yet salvage your military career. At minimum, your life will be spared.”

“But you are surrounded, Sir.”

“Young man, the President’s patience has limits. Before this is done, I will raze these hills and dine with your General as my prisoner.”

The messenger returned to Beauregard with a polite refusal from Anderson. That evening, ships from New York assembled around Fort Sumter. At 4 o’clock in the morning, the fighting started.

Shells slammed Fort Sumter from all sides. Intense mortar fire targeted the battery platform.

Anderson’s soldiers took cover behind stone walls reinforced with iron plates. Beauregard knew there was no point trying to penetrate them. Wood buildings beyond the barrack walls, on the other hand, made good targets. They could be set ablaze.

When the fires broke out, Union soldiers were forced into the open. If the Fort was engulfed, they would be cooked alive. Anderson sent teams to suppress the flames. Most were cut down in the hail of shot.

Anderson could only watch so many die. He ordered the battery platform raised and the cannons deployed. He would show these rebels the magnitude of the fight they had started.

This was what General Beauregard hoped would happen. Sustained shelling weakened the foundations around the pistons. Crumbling outer walls were exposed. The platform stalled ten feet off the surface. Its underbelly was open to heavy guns.

Direct hits rattled the platform. Pistons cracked and Fort Sumter disappeared in a cloud of steam, hot as boiling oil. Residents of Charleston claimed the screams were louder than the guns. The soldiers’ torment only lasted a moment before the steam chamber exploded.

That blast drowned all other noises for miles. It sent a shock across the bay that blew half the merchant fleet over. A deep fissure opened in the bedrock. The top of the island broke away and tipped into the foot of the peninsula.

Soldiers inside were lost. Their bodies were never recovered. It was not known what became of Major Anderson.

Fort Sumter was in ruin. Lincoln was savaged in Congress and by the press. Most people in the Union wanted the army to pummel southern cities. The President responded to the attack by sending ships to blockade Confederate ports.

Lincoln’s opponents in the North howled against what they viewed as a half measure. His enemies in the South tried to have the blockade declared illegal.

Americans clamoured for war. Lincoln chose to do his fighting in court.

When Fort Sumter fell, I was bogged down in the courts as well. Robert’s trial came to a close on the same day in New York City.

The charges stemmed from his attempt to prove that a former client of ours, Northern Central Railroad, financed southern extremists with money they embezzled but claimed was stolen. To prove it, Robert broke into their office. This was mischief and trespassing.

Following his arrest, Robert was authorized to leave New York City on promise of returning for trial. Despite this agreement, Superintendent John Kennedy sent officers to Chicago to seize him without legal notice. Robert fled to help Kate Warne prevent President Lincoln’s assassination. His escape amounted to resisting arrest.

Robert’s actions helped prevent William Hunt from killing the President but he was still guilty of the charges. That was the crux of the trial.

I put my faith in our Agency lawyer, Byron Hayes. I believed the absence of a valid warrant, considered in the light of our cooperation with police and the threat against President Lincoln, would win a dismissal in Robert’s favour.

Mr. Hayes took a different tack. There were times when it seemed he had no intention of answering the charges against my son. He brought every question back to how Kennedy’s police responded to Robert’s alleged break in with such speed.

These tangents were a constant annoyance to Judge Terrence Mansfield. They turned the trial into a farce.

I am tempted to read Robert’s notes just to understand what he and Hayes thought they would accomplish. There is more than curiosity driving me to open the files.

I wanted to keep us out of the war. I wanted to protect us from the conspiracy gaining strength around us. After Robert’s trial, there was no way for me to do so.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

April, 1861

Hayes is a genius. He saw that there was no chance of acquittal. At first, he advised me to plead guilty and avoid the trial altogether.

“Out of the question” I said.

Kennedy had more to answer for than me. Kate Warne saw him on the train at Harrisburg. Kennedy claimed to have accompanied Lincoln to Philadelphia. He could not have been in both places.

The attempt on Lincoln’s life was a national story. Kate was slandered by journalists who spread Kennedy’s version. They also published wicked rumours about her conduct after being drugged on the train before Hunt’s assault.

I do not put it past Kennedy to have planted the opiates and the stories. There was no doubt in my mind that he played some role in supporting William Hunt and the Golden Circle. He may also have helped provide Union equipment to agitators in the south. I was determined to expose this man. How could I, in good conscience, plead guilty to his charges?

At Northern Central, I had used a mechanized lock pick to walk through the front door. No one suspected I was anything other than a railway employee. I entered the file room and fed records into the punch card machine. I was barely there a quarter of an hour when police stormed the room. It is not possible for Northern Central officials to have recognized me as an intruder, for police to have been contacted and for officers to have intervened in that time.

How did Kennedy’s men respond so fast? Why was safeguarding those railway manifests such a priority for police? Those were the real questions.

“We shall raise them.” Hayes said.

The little man wiped his hand over a moustache obscuring the lower half of his face. I could not say whether he was smiling but his eyes were bright with enthusiasm.

“A trial has two outcomes. We agree that the verdict is not in doubt?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will make our stand at sentencing.”

A plan was devised. Our biggest challenge was Papa. We needed him to exert a certain kind of pressure on Kennedy but I could not risk telling him the truth.

I am a bad son. With William for a brother, I’ll still come out ahead.

I had new suits tailored for the trial, dark and severe, cut to the height of today’s fashion. My job was to play a privileged brat who believed himself above the law. We gave newspapers a proper villain. The ones who attacked Kate Warne caricatured me as her lothario counterpart.

I hated seeing her name savaged in the press again. Kate has not been herself since the Lincoln investigation. She has no memory of what took place in the hours after she was drugged.

While she was out of her right mind, William Hunt and his Golden Circle overtook the President’s train. Newspapers reported that she fell from one man to another. She traded clothes, undergarments and jewellery with other women. Other rumours are too shocking to repeat.

Kate regained her senses in time to save Lincoln’s life. The allegations against her have been vehemently denied by Lincoln advisor Harry Vinton. Kate felt ruined all the same.

She has not taken an assignment since. Only Ginny Higgs at the Chicago office has been in regular contact with her.

My only comfort was in knowing that Hayes and I had Kennedy in our sights. If we succeeded, Kate might be avenged.

It was important that my trial be a public event. For the truth to come out, we needed the newspapers.

It is a wonder that Hayes did not end up in jail. From the first day, he tried to have every piece of evidence thrown out. He came close to accusing New York Police of colluding with Northern Central.

“Exhibit Three: a lock picking mechanism used by the defendant . . .”

“I object.” Hayes said. “That machine is under patent to a Northern Central competitor. Its presence in this courtroom violates federal and state laws that protect industrial innovation.”

“Your Honour, we cannot revisit this point again.” The District Attorney said.

“Let us have closure, then. Exclude those items seized illegally by police or let them justify their raid on Northern Central offices. Why were they there?”

In the end, all the evidence was deemed admissible by Judge Mansfield. My defence seemed in shambles.

Kennedy celebrated every victory in the press. The day my guilty verdict was handed down, he was on the front pages not me.

I invited Father to dine with Hayes and me at the hotel. My sentence was to be delivered the next morning. Over dessert, Father relaxed with a biscuit in hand.

“Judge Mansfield will be of a mind to send Robert to jail.” Hayes said.

Father chewed a biscuit and weighed his words.

“You are the barrister, Mr. Hayes. What do you recommend?”

“He might be lenient if we can give him a reason. If we show that the outcome of an important case will be jeopardized by sending Robert to prison, he may suspend the sentence.”

Here was the crucial piece of our puzzle. If Father agreed, we would have our lever.

“Can you be certain this will work?”

“We can only be sure that Robert will go to jail if we do not appeal to the public good.”

Any word I uttered would have turned Father against the idea.

“I know of a case that might be suitable.” Father said.

“In New York?”

“Yes. I could assign Robert to work under his brother.”

“Robert must be in charge or the Judge will view him as replaceable.”

It would be no more than I deserved in my father’s eyes.

“You ask too much of me, Mr. Hayes.”

Papa craves being asked to do too much. This is what Hayes and I were counting on.

“Fine.” Father said. “Tomorrow, you may advise Judge Mansfield that Robert is investigating the murder of Henry Schulte.”

I sipped black coffee and found that I had something to say after all.

“Thank you, Papa.”

It was the same thing I’d said when he retrieved me from the police wagon. I repaid him with lies on both occasions.

The usual press was assembled at the courthouse. I saved my best suit for last; brilliant black with accents of gold on the collar and cuffs. For the first time, reporters parted to let me pass. No one wanted to ruin the outfit.

Inside, Hayes requested a closed session in Judge Mansfield’s chambers. Kennedy insisted on taking part.

Mansfield sat in composed silence waiting for audio equipment to be transferred from the courtroom to his chambers. He had a young face and could have passed for a boy if not for his thinning hair and hunched posture. His body didn’t know how to be old.

It was a delicate job, installing the steam capsules and wax discs that registered our testimony. Flute shaped receivers on each table fed our voices through rubber tubes that amplified the sound. A suction pump in the basement sustained a perfect vacuum inside the tubes. These connected to a sealed box the size of a shipping barrel. Inside, the sound was imprinted as a continuous groove cut into wax discs. The sound of discs being engraved could be heard throughout the courtroom.

The quiet in Mansfield’s chambers was broken by the scraping discs. We could proceed.

“People v. Pinkerton R. Continuance for sentencing. Mr. Hayes, your petition please.”

“We ask the court to recognize that the public good will suffer if my client is jailed.”

“Do the People have a position?”

Kennedy nodded at the District Attorney. He was impatient to announce to his adoring press that officers were dragging me to jail.

“Mr. Pinkerton has been proved a menace. The People wish to see him treated as such.”

“So noted. Mr. Hayes, how will the public suffer by your client paying for his crimes?”

“If my client goes to jail, a killer goes free.” Hayes said. “It’s that simple. Robert Pinkerton is lead detective in the investigation of New York businessman Henry Schulte’s murder.”

Kennedy slapped his palm against the table at mention of the case.

“Impossible.” He said.

“This is smoke and mirrors, your Honour.” The District Attorney added.

“Maybe.” Mansfield said. “The State proved that Mr. Pinkerton tampered with records he had no right to access. I am inclined to agree that these crimes do not outweigh the public’s interest in catching a murderer.”

The District Attorney rubbed his eyes, stalling for time so he could reason his way out. Judge Mansfield helped him.

“If the People can show that Mr. Pinkerton is a danger, the Court will hear arguments against a suspended sentence.” Mansfield said. “Eight armed officers participated in the arrest. Was the defendant acting violently when you responded to Northern Central?”

There it was. If Kennedy wanted to put me behind bars, he would have to explain.

Kennedy turned angry eyes toward the audio recorder.

“We believed Mr. Pinkerton would respond with violence, yes.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“When he fled from Chicago, he led officers on a perilous . . .”

“I am aware of what happened after his arrest, Mr. Kennedy. We are more interested in what happened before. Why did you respond with such a show of force?”

The chamber was silent except for the scraping of wax discs.

“Mr. Kennedy. Help me to understand.”

“The police are not on trial.”

“Of course not, the trial is over . . .” Judge Mansfield said.

Kennedy stood and turned on his heel. He hurried to open the door leading back to the courtroom. Any detective would have understood his rush. Reporters were listening.

Courtroom audio devices were modified on the black market as soon as they were invented. New models are hard to tune because they register, not voices, but the sound of scraping discs. That noise is imprinted backwards then played in reverse as conversation. Even the best units are delayed by several seconds.

Journalists were known to hide these devices in top hats, briefcases, hollowed-out books, anything. Though we were in Mansfield’s chambers, the scraping was still audible in the courtroom. Kennedy threw the doors open just as reporters heard him say,

“The police are not on trial.”

Kennedy emerged and a room full of writers shouted questions at the same time.

The next day, newspapers were filled with speculation about why he had refused to answer for the actions of New York police. It was good sport but less than I’d hoped. Nothing against Kennedy could be proved.

Judge Mansfield had no grounds to refuse Hayes’ petition. I was convicted but given a suspended sentence. So long as I led the Schulte investigation, I was free.

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

July, 1861

My first thought was to fire Byron Hayes and have him stripped of his license. Ms. Higgs made me see that doing so would expose the fact that I had been reading Robert’s files.

Robert was happy to have created a minor media stir. Northern Central was in the papers for less than a week. Kennedy threatened to bring charges against any reporter who tied him to the embezzled funds.

None dared call his bluff. The scandal evaporated in a matter of days.

We could not expect much cooperation from New York police in our investigation of Henry Schulte’s murder. I had to let Robert proceed as he saw fit. If I removed him from the case, or put William back in the lead, Mansfield would revoke the suspended sentence.

Henry Schulte was 72 years old when he died. He owned a business in Manhattan and an estate along the Hudson River. On those shores near his country home, Schulte was killed. He was struck with an axe and the base of the neck, then several more times after he fell into the snow. Details of the case impacted me on a personal level.

I am an immigrant to this country. My prospects for success were dim yet America proved a place where a man’s qualities could be made to count. For all her greatness, America failed Henry Schulte. He came to New York to escape tragic memories in Prussia.

Schulte led a charmed life during his youth. He was handsome, first son of a wealthy landowner and a respected military man. Schulte was also engaged to be married. He was happy.

Schulte’s fiancée had many admirers. One of these men was a farmhand of meagre means who convinced himself that, if he could win the young woman’s heart, his bad luck could be reversed. Love is confusion.

During wartime, Schulte led cavalry teams on reconnaissance missions into the remote wilderness. His fiancée repelled this other man’s unwanted advances during his absence. When the fighting stopped, Schulte returned to a hero’s welcome.

The farmhand fell to depression. His crop failed. His plot was reclaimed by the landlord, Schulte’s father. The foreclosure pushed him over the edge.

Schulte’s fiancée was drowned late one night under a bridge. Her body was hidden in the shallows under a pile of stones. By the time it was uncovered, little physical evidence remained.

Schulte was in disbelief. Against the wishes of his family, he insisted on viewing the body. Friends waited at the hospital to bar him from the sight. Schulte was convinced the cover would be pulled back to reveal some other unfortunate woman. His lover’s distended corpse brought reality down on him with devastating impact.

No one in town doubted who had committed the crime. Schulte took matters into his own hands. He confronted the farmhand at a crowded saloon. Both men suffered in drunken misery. Their argument came to blows. Schulte drew a pistol and shot the man dead.

His torment turned him into a recluse. He was convinced that everyone meant him harm. Now head of his family’s fortune, he retreated to the life of a miser locked in an empty mansion. His paranoia reached such heights that he fled to the anonymity of foreign soil.

Schulte came to America seeking a new beginning. He opened a business transporting goods between north and south, and built his estate on the Hudson River. That is where the promise of the United States failed him. The cruellest twist in Schulte’s story is that, like his fiancée’s murder, there is little doubt as to the killer’s identity.

William Bucholz was his personal assistant. A young man of little accomplishment, his shuffling gait and broken teeth are evidence of the ruffian life he led, first in New York City then in the small town where he met Henry Schulte. Prussian citizenship and an ability to speak Schulte’s language are the only qualities that made him fit to work for the loner.

It was Bucholz who pointed police to Schulte’s body. He claimed to be a loyal employee but his alibi was false and he was arrested. That was the state of the investigation when Norwalk police contacted our Agency.

William Bucholz was being held for the murder of Henry Schulte. Police faced the choice of either laying charges without any proof or releasing a man they believed to be a killer.

My oldest son, William, was heading the case until this business with Robert’s trial. William and I agreed that the best way to proceed would be to watch from a distance. Surveillance is at the heart of all modern detective technique.

A criminal’s conscience is heavy. He will ease his burden by sharing it with another. A detective can quickly identify a list of people who the criminal may choose for his confession.

Bucholz pointed us in a promising direction. His alibi for the night of the killing had been Ms. Sadie Waring.

Waring’s father owned a farm near Schulte’s estate and was the victim’s only real friend. Being his friend amounted to little more than not being scowled at as Schulte came and went from the Emerald Tap House, a bawdy tavern he frequented.

As I have said before, I feel pity for Schulte’s experience of America. This stranger, Waring, was his best friend.

The daughter Sadie took a shine to William Bucholz. They were seen about town together. She told police, after the murder, that Bucholz believed he was on the verge of being given a piece of property as a reward for good service.

This was a lie but, to a scoundrel, lying is just a way of speaking. He trusted her. It was clear that Bucholz would try to communicate with Sadie.

I tried to convey this insight to Robert. I ought not to have bothered.

To him, the key to the case was finding money stolen from Schulte’s home the day he died. Police could not recover it. I explained to Robert that we had not been hired to pursue failed lines of inquiry.

“We will look for the same item.” He said. “We will not look in the same way.”

It came as no surprise when Ms. Higgs showed me the contract Robert issued to rogue operative Ernie Stark. Lives were sure to be lost as soon as Ernie Stark was hired.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

May, 1861

The giant slave who saved me at Harrisburg had a name. He was called Ray.

I followed him over the side of the rail platform and broke some toes when my foot smashed against a piece of track. The impact sent me pin wheeling out of control. If I hit the ground spinning, I would have been folded in half.

Eyes wide, I saw Ray reach toward me from a girder halfway down. The man was so strong that he had caught himself against the frame. I landed on Ray’s huge arm. It was like being hit in the stomach with a piece of timber.

The impact pulled Ray off the girder. I don’t think he intended to catch me, just break the fall. It was enough to ensure that the forest floor didn’t kill us both.

Ray carried me back to gypsy quarters and vouch for me as an enemy of the gang that laid waste to the rail depot. With money from my purse, he rented barrio lodgings on a train to Philadelphia.

We were away. I was broken but alive.

While I recovered, Ray put a plan in motion. It came together with surprising speed.

“Sign this.” He said.

“What is it?”

“Just make yer’ mark.”

Ray handed me a set of papers in legal typeset. I signed. The papers were taken to a man whose face was covered by a web of tattoos. In low light, they changed the appearance of his jaw, nose and brow all shifting as he turned his head.

This man applied counterfeit seals to the document. Ray slid them into an envelope. He lifted my jacket and cut a pocket into the liner. The envelope was tucked inside.

“I belong to you now.” He said.

I understood.

“At Philadelphia,” I said. “I will have you declared a free man.”

Ray nodded.

“Not just that.” He said. “You’ll teach me . . .”

“ . . . to not be a slave?”

“ . . . to be free.”

When we arrived, Ray was the perfect supplicant. He cowered under my hand in front of other white men. I was complimented more than once on the demeanour of my slave. Our masquerade convinced the court. Ray was so obviously my property.

“Are you sure you want to set this one free?” The Judge asked. “Not all of ’em can make a go of it on their own.”

This was the final barb Ray would endure as a slave.

“He’ll find a way.” I said.

The papers were notarized. An entry was made in the Pennsylvania register. In the eyes of the law, Ray was free. In his own mind, he had only begun to be so.

We arranged for him to lease at an apartment in south Philadelphia. It was a dreary place, where a derelict might choose to live. It made no difference to him.

Ray wanted to acquire obligations. Only a free man could make a commitment.

It was all financed from my account. Ray was not shy about reminding me that my brains would be lubricating a Harrisburg telegraph machine had it not been for him.

It wasn’t extortion. He had in fact saved my life. One of the first things you learn as an agent is to pay your debts. Don’t let them linger.

After fitting him for new clothes, I was tapped for cash. The call from Pinkerton came at a good time. Robert’s idea was daft. I didn’t have any interest in going to prison but I needed money and wanted some distance from my new companion.

Ray made it clear that I would not break from him so easily. He insisted that I bring the Pinkerton contract to his apartment and explain the legality of it before I signed.

“We can do the work together.” Ray said.

“They won’t let you mix with other prisoners. You may be free but you’re still black.” I said.

“I can do what’s needed outside the prison.”

“Robert Pinkerton will be running the case.”

“Do you trust him?” Ray asked.

Robert was a clever dick. I couldn’t leave myself in his hands. I needed a proxy. Ray was the only option.

Robert bought into the idea. He even pledged to be a mentor to Ray, whatever that meant. His main concern was getting me into the prison, close to the accused William Bucholz.

“We’ll do what police cannot. You will be right next to him.” Robert said.

“And he’ll bear his soul because . . . what?”

“You will find a way, Stark, just as you did with the Golden Circle.”

This was the sort of thing that made me distrust the boy. He knew it was Webster, not me, who burrowed into the Golden Circle before being killed.

“Whatever happens, it will be fast.” I said. “Trust takes time to build between sweethearts, not criminals.”

“You know best. I have made arrangements. The local prosecutor will drop charges against you once we have learned what we can from Bucholz. For this to work, though, you must actually be arrested.”

“Don’t worry. Getting into prison isn’t hard.”

It was harder than I thought. Ray and I concocted a scheme. He showed a good understanding of how to scare people into a herd.

I wrote a pile of bad cheques. I didn’t want to be a clown about it so I took care to make them passable. A trained eye would recognize them as forgeries. The idea was to get pinched cashing cheques then cause a scene, with Ray’s help, that brought police on the trot.

Trouble was small town bank tellers cashed the cheques and wished me a pleasant day. By mid-afternoon, I had a bag full of money.

Back at the hotel, Ray counted the bills twice. He got it wrong both times but, asking for help, ended with the right amount. I initialled the report for Agency records.

Ray was organized and took it seriously. He made mistakes but was eager to fix them.

That night, I saw what it really was to make a new life out of nothing. He hadn’t been putting the screws to me in Philadelphia. Saving my life was his only foothold. When the money was counted and stored, we had our first real conversation as partners.

“Watch out for Robert and his toys.” I said.

“Is he simple?”

“He’s an odd bird when it comes to machines on a case.”

“Be nice to have that kinda’ back up.” Ray said.

“Sure but it’s just back up. Robert lets a machine take the place of common sense.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” He said. “Stark?”

“Yeah.”

“Bet they got Saul Mathews locked away in one of these jails up here.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

Saul was William Hunt’s right hand in the Lincoln plot. He was captured by Kate Warne. According to papers, Saul was jailed in New York State. I had no desire to meet him again except, maybe, in an alley late at night with a pistol to his head.

The next morning, Ray and I got it right. We made sure no bank teller could mistake our cheques for the real thing. They were obnoxious fakes.

We targeted a busy change house sure to keep good people on staff. The clerk took my cheque and called his manager.

“I apologize, Sir. We cannot complete this transaction.” The manager said.

I gritted my teeth, all furious. It was ham-handed stuff. I never claimed to be an actor.

“What’s your game? I’m no fool.” I said.

“Please, Sir. Try to calm down.”

Some clients walked out to avoid the scene. Others pushed forward to get a better look.

The manager tried to give me the benefit of the doubt.

“Sir, I fear you have been the victim of a con. These notes are worthless. We will arrange for you to meet with constables. You can tell them who issued these cheques . . .”

I exploded. Pushing the teller aside, I reached out as if to snatch the cheque. The manager was so slow that I grabbed it without meaning to. I had to pitch halfway over the counter to justify dropping it at his feet again.

“Take it easy, mister.” Ray said.

Everyone in the bank clutched their wallets. A giant black man with whip lashes across his face made them shake in their boots.

I lunged at the manager again. He had enough wit to hold onto the cheque this time.

Ray advanced toward me. I jumped at him, using the counter as a springboard. We tumbled. I punched him twice on the jaw. The impact sent a shudder up to my elbow.

Ray pretended to be knocked out. I pretended my arm wasn’t in agony.

Police rushed into the bank. I charged as though to escape. Three officers held me down while a fourth restrained me in a harness like the one that killed Timothy Webster.

I flailed, hissing at old ladies now protected by men who had rediscovered their bravery. Once the scene was brought to order, police asked patrons what happened. By that time, Ray had long since walked away. He was sly.

Ray loomed as an even bigger part of the story after he was gone. Bank clients described him in mythic terms; an African Hercules. Their wild exaggerations made me seem supernatural. If I had been crazy enough to attack that behemoth, and strong enough to knock him down, there was no telling what I might do next.

Police took me away, pistols at the ready. I was rushed from the local jail to State prison.

The State penal machine was impossible to mistake. I stepped from a splintered wagon into a transport capsule.

The low ceiling was lit from above. As I entered, the walls shifted. Panels on all sides slid in unison. The entrance closed. In the same motion, planks on the far wall flipped down to create a bench. Boards of many shapes were connected in a single unbroken piece, moving together.

I had heard former prisoners describe the laboratory efficiency of the State system. It was a thrill to experience it for myself.

Across from the bench, two drawers slid open. One was empty. The other contained blue coveralls and a pair of leather boots.

“Prisoner. Remove your clothes. Place them in the bin provided.”

I did as I was told. Standing naked under the light, I was aware of a rumbling all around. Things were shifting but it didn’t feel like the capsule was moving. A sense of disorientation set in. The thrill was becoming uneasiness.

“Prisoner. A penitentiary uniform is in the bin adjacent. You will wear this on arrival.”

I took the uniform out. The drawers slid back, turned on end and disappeared.

I leaned down to look at the seams between boards and saw hundreds of scratches and punctures in the surface of the wood. Inmates had tried to pry these panels loose.

The light overhead went out. Rumbling outside seemed louder in the dark. I pulled the coveralls over my shoulders and hurried to buckle the boots.

Floorboards rose under my feet. The capsule rattled then the ceiling peeled back. Hazy light and the smell of unwashed men poured down from above. The capsule fell away, every panel collapsing into the others before sliding into the gap beneath my boots.

As it came apart, I saw that I had arrived at Ryker’s Island prison. I fastened the last button on the coveralls. A guard clamped restraints over my arms.

“You’re lucky.” The guard said. “Some guys don’t get those on in time.”

He led me onto a moving walkway that slid from the staging area to a holding bay. Inmates leered at me.

After Ray brought it to mind, I decided to keep my eyes open for Saul. If he was at Ryker’s Island, so long as I spotted him without being recognized, there would be no problem.

I was thinking this when the walkway slid under a row of open cells and I looked up to see Saul leaning against the fence, staring right at me.

Robert, you idiot.

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

July, 1861

There was a time in the Schulte affair when it bothered me that Robert was not sending status reports to Chicago. In retrospect, this was a blessing. I would not have wanted to know.

Ms. Higgs knocked at my door. She placed a richly embossed card on the desk.

“He asked to see you in private.” She said.

It was Harry Vinton, attaché and advisor to President Lincoln. That he wanted to see me alone could mean only one thing.

“The President has a favour to ask.” Vinton said.

“He can count on my support, as always.”

“His blockade of Confederate ports has been declared illegal in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts and Illinois. The next case will be heard in New York.”

“Could the President have misjudged his authority?” I said.

“No. Union judges have been compromised.”

“Surely not.”

“Judge Terrence Mansfield will preside over the blockade hearing in New York.” Vinton continued. “We assumed that he was already lost when he ruled in your son’s case. Your family is a known friend of the President. That Robert was set free sent a signal.”

“Mansfield is not yet corrupted.”

“The President aims to confirm his legal authority to blockade the south or he will have no choice but to unleash the full Union arsenal in a war with the Confederates.”

“He does not wish to legitimize the rebellion.”

“He does not wish to massacre Americans.”

Vinton took an envelope from his coat. It held a Presidential seal.

“There has been an incident, Mr. Pinkerton. Rebel positions have been wiped out at Charleston, the city once protected by Fort Sumter. No soldier was spared. No gun left standing.”

“You said the President would not authorize the use of such force.”

“The attack was not carried out by Union regulars.” Vinton said. “Hundreds of notices were left behind, offering amnesty to soldiers who walk away from the Confederate cause.”

“Major Anderson?” I said.

“They also offer amnesty to those who walk away from the Union. He is mounting a private army. Dozens have deserted already.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“That is what the President wants you to find out.”

Vinton proposed sending Kate Warne. This came as no surprise.

Ms. Warne had not been to the Agency office since returning from the Golden Circle assignment. She was burned and injured in the fight with William Hunt. She needed time to rehabilitate. When newspaper reports about her emerged, everything changed.

She would not contact me. She never spoke about the stories or her trouble remembering the events at Harrisburg. I tried to find a case to launch her back into action. I had no success until now.

Kate Warne could do the job Vinton proposed. However, I was reluctant to become embroiled in military matters.

“All will be lost if Anderson uses the weapons we are trying to keep out of this conflict.” Vinton said. “We want to prevent a total war. You said the President could count on you.”

“He can.” I said. “If I send Kate Warne, how can we know that Charleston won’t come under attack again? It would be unsafe.”

“She won’t be going there. Anderson vowed two things at Fort Sumter. Charleston was one. Capturing Gustave Beauregard was the other. Beauregard is expected to fight the blockade at Chesapeake Bay. If Anderson is alive, Kate will find him there.”

“What about Judge Mansfield?” I said. “Surely, we can be of more help on that front.”

“You have an agent at Ryker’s Island pressing William Bucholz?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are already active on that front.”

Robert was in the field. I had no way to warn him that the Schulte investigation carried so much weight and that our enemies were closing ranks around us.

*   *   *

Repository Note:

It is no longer reasonable for me to hope that the controversy created by this material will defuse itself as more documents are uncovered. Serious questions must now be asked. The reference to Timothy Webster can be viewed as an anomaly. The same is true of Pinkerton’s description of Abraham Lincoln and the question of slavery. At this stage, however, we have an obligation to determine whether the papers are accurate and, if they are, how they were kept out of the historic record for so long. A century and a half is a long time to wait for these revelations. Could it be true that President Lincoln balked at using the most destructive weapons in the war? Was Robert Anderson a renegade deserter as suggested in this account? It is hard to see how any of this can be reconciled with the consensus history of America.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Kate Warne

June, 1861

Sailors are no worse than the others. Men all have the same eyes.

I sailed from Baltimore aboard USS Cumberland. The boat had seen action in Europe, Africa and Mexico over thirty years of service. She had once been a sailing frigate with 52 guns, a formidable warship. With new propulsion and weapons technology, in more recent years, she was now vastly upgraded.

Cumberland was half in the old world, half in the new. The wooden hull was intact but masts and sails had come down to make room for better equipment.

The most obvious change was above deck. The bow, stretching forward from empty footings around the defunct sail mast, carried an iron platform for two dirigible airships. One was a long range striker. It could soar above cannons on the ground and deliver heavy ordinance on wide bombing runs. The other had no strike capability. It was for propulsion.

That dirigible was fixed to Cumberland by high tension wires at starboard and port. It could reach heights of 5,000 feet or more. At its desired altitude, the airship extended mechanized arms that dropped sails into trade winds.

Pulled forward by atmospheric currents, Cumberland could outrun any vessel that relied on conventional sails or engines. She lacked maneuverability, which was a drawback. With sails extended, the boat gained so much momentum that deep water rudders were used to keep her from flying away.

Cumberland’s mission was to enforce President Lincoln’s blockade. Commanders were happy to trade agility for speed. At Chesapeake Bay, she would seize nimble merchant boats arriving from Europe and beyond. If Cumberland entered tight quarters within the Bay itself, her other innovations would come into play.

The blockade would not create immediate hardship for the South. With miles of coastline and countless inlets to ensure a flow of black market goods, the Confederate economy would not suffer. Where the blockade was supposed to hurt was in the import of munitions. These would have to land at larger ports.

So long as the Union blocked these shipments, the war could be contained. This is what President Lincoln wanted.

If possible, he also wanted to secure key harbors housing shipyards or serving as gateways to important cities. Chesapeake Bay was one such port.

Hampton Roads shipyard was on its shore and Chesapeake provided a waterway to the Union capital at Washington and the Confederate stronghold of Richmond. Both sides wanted to control it.

On the Cumberland, I was no better than a stowaway. It was preferred that I stay in my cabin.

Robert would compare the ship to a machine. He would say that, someday soon, every function performed by men would be automated and a boat this size could be operated by a handful instead of a hundred. For now, men were its moving parts.

I ought not to have said what I did about the eyes of men. Robert is different. I don’t see pity, revulsion and desire in his eyes.

Ginny Higgs told me that Robert was troubled when my name got dragged back into the sewer during his trial. Robert is the only person to ever get down in that sewer with me. It didn’t bother me one bit.

I wonder how Ginny knew those things about him. I must remember to ask.

Three whistles sounded on deck. Sailors stopped loading bombs into the long range striker and turned their attention to equipment that needed to be strapped down. A fourth whistle blew, longer than the first three together.

The airship overhead pulled back its sails. The Cumberland lost all her heady speed at once. I pitched forward into the window of my cabin. Sailors below had expected just such a thing. I felt a rage in my gut, seeing the men laugh at me.

Chesapeake Bay came into view. Its quays, gun placements, shipyard and river tributaries were hidden behind spits of land that jutted into the ocean. There was only a narrow mouth for ships to cross. It was a chaotic scene. The blockade had created a melee on the water.

I retrieved my viewport goggles. These were smaller versions of the huge lenses I used on the PWB dirigible to find Lincoln’s train en route to Harrisburg. Glass pieces of varying size and thickness shifted into the line of sight. With some practice, objects in the distance could be captured, brought into focus then enhanced.

I watched ships do battle around Chesapeake Bay. It reminded me of bathing in the tub as a child. Cups and sponges were boats and islands and sea creatures in my imagination. Sooner or later, they met their doom as I slapped at the water and laid waste to all.

That was Chesapeake Bay. There were as many ships racing toward the narrow mouth as trying to punch out from inside. Slow moving tall ships, with their obsolete sails brilliant white against powder smoke, crossed hulking steamers and blockade runners skimming low. The water roiled with cannon balls missing their targets. Cumberland plowed into this jumble and became a target for Confederate warships.

The rebel fleet looked like it was bolted together from tugs and spare cannons. Three steamers veered toward us, knocking themselves askew with each blast of their guns.

Cumberland’s high altitude dirigible settled back onto the platform. Sailors hurried to chain it in place so the bomber could be released. We were vulnerable during the switch.

Confederate boats wasted ammunition firing out of range. I could track how much time we had by watching the splashes get closer. A cannonball skipped into our hull just as the bomber lifted off. Cumberland was free to fight back.

Air is a boat’s enemy. A pocket of air, rising from underneath, can send even a sturdy ship to the bottom. Rebel boats were far from sturdy.

Pipes beneath the Cumberland’s hull belched. I felt the ship lift as a ring of densely packed air bubbles radiated from below us. The ring expanded into a wide pocket rising to the surface. Two rebel steamers tipped over in the void. The ocean could not hold them.

The third cut wide to avoid this burst. Doing so moved it into the bomber’s line of fire.

The dirigible’s operators released pressurized canisters that exploded before reaching sea level. Decks were strafed. Masts fell. Crewmen were injured in such numbers that boats became inoperable. This cleared a path for Cumberland to the mouth of Chesapeake Bay.

An officer knocked at my cabin. I opened the door and took three paces back. No man could catch me by surprise from that distance. I felt the bulk of a single-shot pistol in my boot. It settled my nerves.

Pinkertons frowned on the use of such weapons. I no longer shared those reservations. Not since Harrisburg.

“It is time, detective.” He said. “Would you not prefer we take you directly to shore?”

“Quite sure, thank you. I will be ready.”

Officers on the Cumberland had been briefed on the search for Anderson, my reason for being at Chesapeake Bay. They ought to have understood that the assignment called for an element of surprise. It would do no good to be seen climbing off a Union warship.

This would be my first case since Robert and I saved President Lincoln. Mr. Pinkerton told anyone who would listen that I had refused a series of assignments after coming home. The truth is that no client would let the Agency to put me on their file.

Mr. Pinkerton was happy to offer me the Anderson case. I took it just to get away.

I emptied equipment from my locker. The iron lung, blast vest and explosive charges each used a separate steam canister. Before climbing into the wooden box I intended to blow up, I made sure the kit was in order.

The Cumberland set its sights on a blockade runner approaching from the ocean. A row of corkscrewing torpedoes was mounted on our port side. Fired in a tight pattern, these would attach to an enemy hull without grinding it to bits. Cables trailing behind could then be used to draw it in under control.

The boat kicked as torpedoes were launched. I heard a cheer that left little doubt we had caught the smaller vessel.

I put the blast vest on first. It ran from my thighs, past vials on my belt and over my chest. It was too tight to be comfortable. The protection it provided when inflated, and a thin pocket of air separated my body from whatever might crash into me, was a comfort.

I pulled the iron lung’s headpiece down to my shoulders. It was heavier than I expected. The neck guard slid over the lip of the blast vest. I was covered.

Outside, sailors from the Cumberland boarded the captured vessel and unloaded its cargo. Under normal circumstances, the ship would have been stripped then sunk. In this case, one of the crates was carried to the back of the ship while the rest were inspected.

The breathing apparatus locked into the neck guard. An air filter cupped over my nose and mouth. Goggles slid over my eyes. Ambient air was sucked out. For a moment, I was suffocating. Once the seal was established, oxygen filled the head piece. The iron lung could keep me alive for hours.

The Lieutenant entered my room again and led me down to the deck. The crate had been emptied, its goods replaced with ballast and lined with canvas cushioning.

I climbed inside. The lid was fastened. With me laying flat among the canvas rolls, the crate was carried back to the seized vessel.

I got to work, attaching explosive vials to the corners of the crate from inside. Cumberland’s officers let the blockade runner proceed to Chesapeake Bay after the mock inspection. Merchants would be surprised but happy not to lose their ship.

For me, inside the crate, some painful crashing about was expected. This was the most dangerous part of the mission. I had no control.

Cumberland’s bomber was to continue firing into the jumble of boats, trying to make it look like they were clearing a path for the mother ship. In fact, this would provide passage for the blockade runner. Once I was on shore, assuming I wasn’t blown to bits by stray cannon fire, the bomber was supposed to track my movements and intervene if things went wrong.

There was no way for me to know if the plan was working. The worst case scenario would be for the vessel to be struck before reaching the docks. If water penetrated the crate, I would blow the lid and take my chances.

The boat rocked at wild angles. I felt the concussion of cannon fire all around. There were moments when I felt I might lose consciousness.

It was so peaceful. I felt erased.

Maybe I wouldn’t fire the charges at the first sign of trouble. Maybe I would let the water rise around me and sink with the rest of the cargo. At the bottom of the Atlantic, I would spend a few hours in total quiet, taking calm breaths until the oxygen ran out.

My sense of time was gone. The run to shore seemed to go on forever.

Without knowing for sure when it happened, I became aware that the rollicking had stopped. Everything was still. Either I was dead or we had docked.

I blew the charges. The vest kept my ribs from collapsing under the pressure. Glass cracked in the goggles. The top of the crate tore apart and launched into the air. I pulled the head piece away and sat up to take a deep breath.

The rush of air made me dizzy. I swayed in place for a half minute or more. If the guards nearby had not been so stunned to see someone rise from the exploding crate, I’m sure they would have shot me.

I got my bearings and climbed halfway out before the first rifle shot struck me in the back. The vest held but the pain was intense. I was knocked down between containers.

I tossed the neck guard aside then let all the air drain from the vest. Unprotected, the next shot would kill me but I needed to move. I jabbed a hole in the rubber cap that connected the steam canister to the head piece. Escaping gas caused it to spin and jump all over.

I lit the gas with a flint chip. Flames spread quickly as the canister whirled. Fire climbed the sides of the wooden crates. Smoke rose to the rafters. I heard the guards yell, approaching on the run. I sprinted from behind the boxes.

They fired but missed. I kept my eyes on the open door ahead.

It didn’t take long for flames to creep into the oxygen canister. The explosion was contained within the loading dock. In the cacophony outside, I doubted many would notice a loud bang from the docks.

I looked back to see the guard who shot me clutching a broken shin. He looked to be in a great deal of pain. I was glad.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

June, 1861

The original design at Ryker’s Island aimed to isolate inmates. It used the same automation as in the transport capsule, only on a larger scale.

The first prisoners went crazy. They were under constant observation yet always alone. They ate, exercised, washed and slept without seeing other humans.

The rumbling of the prison sounded like voices. It was common for prisoners to talk to the building at night.

Suicide was rampant. Convicts who served their sentence were released as outright lunatics. Change became a necessity.

Administrators tested different solutions. In the end, they had to accept that inmates needed each other. In the most telling experiment, fifty prisoners were released into an empty yard. They didn’t speak. No fights broke out. They just huddled together in one corner.

That was the end for Ryker’s Island as a fully automated facility. Common areas were created. A social order emerged. Inmates clustered into gangs.

What happened next caught everyone by surprise. One idiot savant among the prisoners figured out the timing and arrangement of shifting walls. Changes to the old architecture made it possible for prisoners to slip into small pockets of space when a ledge folded away or a corridor opened. No one dared because they were sure to be crushed or lost.

The savant disappeared for long stretches. Hours later, he would be back at the quad or in his cell without warning.

That man became a seeing-eye dog for the gangs. Mobility was power. Inmates went wherever they pleased even during a lock down. Guards couldn’t stop them.

Weaker prisoners missed the old days. Now there really were voices in the walls.

William Bucholz would have done better in that original setting. When I found him, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Even getting kicked in the teeth, he seemed tired.

In all the time I’ve spent with men who would lie to your face then call you a sucker, I never saw a scramble like the one to get at Bucholz. Men were fighting each other to reach him.

Saul was right in there. He wasn’t getting his hands dirty. His goons were scrapping with another gang, trying to get at Bucholz first.

I told Robert it would happen fast. Saul flashed me a smile. I punched him in the mouth.

No one knew which side I was on. I pushed into the crowd, between the gangs and Bucholz. He looked up. His rat face made me think about all the grifters I’d ever worked over.

You just wanted to stomp on him. You couldn’t help it.

“What’re you doing?” He asked.

“What I been paid to do.”

I leaned him against the wall. The least he could do was stand up.

The two gangs recognized a common enemy. I would have had trouble getting the jump on any of them. Forget about all of them.

The wall behind Bucholz shifted away from us. We stepped back with it. A row of panels folded up in the gap, cutting us off. The last board snapped into place and prison guards stepped into the breach, guns pointed at our heads.

I dropped to my knees. The guard who met me on arrival pushed Bucholz down beside me. I could hear Saul and the others in the walls. They were trying to find us.

“This ain’t a rescue.” The guard said. “You take care of your own trouble in here. I don’t like wild cards, though, mister. Why’d you step in for this man?”

Any concern I had for the integrity of Robert’s investigation went out the window the second I laid eyes on Saul. All bets were off.

“I’m a detective.” I said. “The Pinkerton Agency sent me to find out if this fellow is guilty of killing an old man in New York.”

“They put you in here for that?”

“Believe me, I’m going to throttle the boy who got me into this.” I said.

Bucholz eyed me. I didn’t like it so I clutched his collar in one hand and yanked his head down. None of the guards got involved. They moved back, ready to leave.

“You’re going to give me what I need, Bucholz.” I said. “Or you’ll die before me, I swear.”

The walls slid away. The guards were gone. Bucholz and I were alone.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

June, 1861

The investigation was on track. Stark was at Ryker’s Island. Ray and I picked up the clues police left behind at Norwalk.

I first had the idea during my trial. One of a detective’s great challenges is to convince informants to speak the truth. Why not record them among their peers?

Norwalk police reported that William Bucholz first met Henry Schulte at Emerald Tap House. By New York City standards it was timid. For a small town, it was a bad place.

Schulte had been a regular at the Emerald. The only person who ever looked for him there was the farmer Waring. That is, until William Bucholz came along.

Bucholz was a hoodlum. His life was going nowhere in New York. Who could blame him for seeking out something different at Norwalk?

After being hired by Schulte, the Emerald became a favorite of his as well. Bucholz was seen there with Sadie Waring. The last dinner he ate before being arrested was at the Emerald.

I was sure the liars and gamblers at the Emerald knew more about the murder than they told police. It was the perfect place to test the audio equipment I saw reporters use during my trial. Patrons would tell us everything they knew and not even realize they were doing it.

Ray was skeptical. I tried to calm his nerves by explaining how it would work.

People are not allowed to chew tobacco in New York taverns. Men can play cards and get drunk but not chew tobacco. It has something to do with public health.

To get around the law, taverns provide spittoons in the men’s toilet. Health inspectors never catch anyone spitting at their table. Taverns keep the heavy drinkers happy.

“You want to listen to the toilets?” Ray said.

“Precisely. I will be at a table. Regulars will notice me. They’ll talk.” I said. “I will ask about Bucholz and Schulte. Someone will mention the murder. When that happens, it will be in the toilet, and you will be listening.”

The trick to making it work was hiding the equipment. Toilets were social places. That suited our purpose but didn’t give us much time to mount receivers at the spittoon. I was reluctant to suggest the obvious to Ray. In the end, I just came out and said it.

“Given your . . . skin tone . . . if you go to the toilet, everyone else will come out.”

It was decided. Before the Emerald got busy the following afternoon, Ray shuffled in and ordered a beer. New York is free soil so the bar man couldn’t lawfully refuse.

Ray drank quickly. Before leaving, he asked to use the toilet. The bar man was none too happy. He went ahead to clear all the white men out. With the toilet empty, Ray went inside.

To keep the tubes out of sight, Ray fitted them under things that patrons rarely use. A rack of newspapers hung from the wall, for example. The Emerald wasn’t the sort of place where people did a lot of reading. Hand towels were another good option. He ran the tubs behind, bored a hole under the window and poked the end outside.

With those preparations made, we returned to the hotel to dress Ray like a hobo. He could have passed for any of the former slaves living in Norwalk off scraps.

After dark, Ray slumped in an alley behind the Emerald. I connected tubes from the toilet to a machine, no bigger than a shoebox, which imprinted sound onto wax discs inside. A line ran to a cup over Ray’s ear so he could listen. We covered the machine in filthy rags and put a bloody bandage over Ray’s ear.

I entered the Emerald and took a seat at the bar. A fiddler sawed and jigged at the far end. Few of the regulars had arrived.

Bits of tape and blood on the floor marked the square where boxing matches were held. Tips of fingers floated in a glass jar amid liquor bottles behind the bar, a common warning to card hustlers. The Emerald had its kinks.

The stools filled before the tables. Drinkers chatted in a familiar way. Friends and enemies told jokes and made threats. When my food arrived, I asked the bar man,

“D’you expect Bill Bucholz tonight?”

Some of the drunks turned to look.

“Don’t imagine.”

“Still in jail then?”

“Ain’t my business to say.”

I took my food to a table. It was a good start.

The beefsteak was awful but helped me hold down the liquor. I bought more drinks for those around me than for myself. We drank and stomped as the fiddler played.

The others were suspicious but not enough to turn down free drinks. I drew them to me then proceeded to chase them away.

“Bucholz ought ta’ have told me what he was gonna do.” I said. “I would have taken more credit off the old man.”

I laughed like a fool, drinks going to my head. I made an ass of myself but the plan was working. It got harder to keep people at my table. Men pointed at me as they walked to the toilet.

I recognized one who had been at the bar earlier. He was short. His whiskers hung low under his chin. Tinted spectacles were perched on his nose. He was followed by a man I hadn’t noticed before, wearing riding gear like he had just come off the road.

I ordered another glass of bourbon. It wasn’t as harsh as the turpentine in other bottles. I tipped the waiter more than required. Things were going to script.

I noticed Ray standing in the doorway. That was not part of the plan.

“That’s far enough.” The bar man said.

Ray scanned the room. The bar man stepped from behind the counter with a wooden club. He got close enough to have a good look at Ray then stopped, remembering that he had escorted him to the toilet hours before.

“What’re you up to, boy?”

I wobbled, finding it harder to stand than expected.

“Ray!”

I yelled above the fiddler. I had drunk more bourbon than I realized.

Ray made a gesture for me to come to the door. The bar man moved next to him, sizing up the odds. Drinkers stared in alarm.

Any chance of saving the operation was lost when the fiddler stopped as Ray said,

“Bucholz didn’t do it.”

The bar man swung his club hard against Ray’s knee. The sting made Ray wince.

He raised the club a second time. Ray caught the man’s forearm.

We were in the free north but this was still America. A black man couldn’t put his hands on a white one.

The Emerald went quiet. The two men returned from the toilet to find Ray restraining the bar man, me ambling to the front and everyone else holding their breath. Ray pointed to the one in spectacles.

“He did it. They had the same planned for you. Drag you out. Give you the axe.”

Pushing the eye glasses up his nose, the whiskered man came at us. His partner threw open a long jacket to pull a pistol out of his belt. A dozen others around the bar stood up.

“They’re slave catchers.” Ray said. “That was Schulte’s business.”

Ray pulled the club away and pushed the bar man aside. He stepped between me and the crowd, taking a deep breath as though calling on some deep reserve. I was touched that he thought he would have to save me.

I flipped one of the rags from his disguise over Ray’s head to cover his eyes. An optical stunner, around the size of an apple, was in my pocket. I palmed the globe in my left hand and lobbed it high into the air while yanking on the firing pin with my right.

No one could resist looking at the ball of sparkles. When the gas tab inside exploded, the orb bloomed. Crystal and glass pieces came apart, suspended in mid air. An intense blue flame sent light radiating through the lenses.

Patrons were helpless. The light had a destabilizing effect.

It never fails to impress me, seeing people fall away from the stunner. Like trees blown over by a strong wind, they all splay out in the same direction. So it was at the Emerald.

The only person left standing other than Ray and me was the whiskered man. His spectacles filtered out light from my stunner. He lifted the pistol from his partner’s hand.

“Pinkertons.” He said.

Ray threw the club. It struck the man’s neck just as the gun discharged. A bullet hit the fingertip jar. Nubs of lost digits fell on the bar, some bobbing like ice cubes in full glasses.

Ray and I ducked for cover. When we looked up again, the man was gone. His partner was unconscious on the floor.

“He won’t get far.” I said. “This one here will tell us who he is.”

“I know who he is.” Ray said. “Never forget that voice. That was William Hunt.”

What was William Hunt doing at the Emerald?

“Don’t know.” Ray said. “Jus’ know that Bucholz didn’t kill the old man.”

In the alley outside, I retrieved the audio device. We could prove that William Bucholz was innocent. We also found William Hunt. It was exciting.

“Now that yer’ out,” Ray said. “I can tell the rest.”

“Of what?”

“Rest of what he said.”

There was no time for me to listen to the recordings at the hotel. I didn’t understand why but Ray was certain that William Hunt would be headed to the Waring farm.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

June, 1861

I thought my leg would break when the wall rotated down to the floor. Worse, I thought the savant might leave me behind. The panel dug into my shin and I cried out.

“Wait!”

Bucholz came back. His arms shook with effort as he pulled the panels apart. When my leg was free, his fingers smashed between. He screamed bloody murder.

Far off in the walls, I heard Saul’s men laugh. They were following us again.

This was not what I had in mind when we set out ten minutes ago. How had I managed to botch this so badly in so little time?

The guard who pulled us out of the fight, the one who knew I was a Pinkerton, decided to send Bucholz and me back to the common area rather than into the hands of Saul’s gang. That was lucky. We emerged among other prisoners. Saul’s crew wasn’t there.

It was a head start. We needed to move but I had no idea how.

“We can’t stay here.” I said.

Bucholz pointed across the quad.

The savant was by himself, eyes closed, bobbing in the corner. I thought he was doing some kind of idiot’s dance. I was wrong.

He was listening to the prison and mimicking the movements needed to walk behind the walls. I saw him repeat the same pattern three times, always stopping and shaking his head at the same spot.

“They changed it.” He said.

Every piece of the prison was connected. To open one corridor or close an area to quell trouble, other components shifted all over Ryker’s Island. The savant who figured out how the whole thing fit together didn’t do so by watching the pieces. He did it by listening.

He moved through the prison in his mind but couldn’t get past a certain point. Maybe the guards adjusted part of the sequence. This was our chance.

“They changed it.” He said again.

I held him by the shoulders. Our world was a waking dream to him. I shook hard and locked my eyes on his.

“Bosses.” He said. “Bosses won’t be happy.”

The gangs were helpless without this man.

“You have to show them.” I said.

I motioned toward Bucholz and myself.

“We came from in there.” I said. “Take us back, to his cell. See what changed.”

The savant turned to Bucholz.

“3703-WB. Block 13-C. The sound isn’t from 13-C.”

“That’s what they changed.” I lied. “To fool the bosses.”

He believed me. I doubted Saul or any of the gang leaders would kill him for helping us. He was too important.

The savant crouched next to the stairwell. A bell sounded in the common area as guards cleared inmates out of the quad. The stairwell came apart and the savant rolled into the hollow. My spine rattled against a bracket as I followed. It was dark and louder than I had imagined. I panicked waiting for my eyes to adjust.

I felt the same panic moments later when, barely able to see, I got my leg stuck and Bucholz had to come back for me. Keeping up with the savant was tough. We crawled from tight corners into spinning gears then down black holes with no real idea where we were going.

Bucholz pulled his mangled fingers out of the panels. The savant was a step ahead. He bent at the waist, fell forward and was gone.

The ceiling dropped and the light disappeared. I dragged Bucholz to the far end and pushed his head down. We tipped over and crashed into an iron rod. The platform behind lifted. Upside down, Bucholz and I slid off the bar and fell on our backs.

I was tired, happy just to have a break. Bucholz was in a state.

“I didn’t kill Schulte.” Bucholz said. “It was those slave catchers. They wanted his business but the old fool wouldn’t sell. Waring was in on it. Schulte kept slaves at the farm.”

“Everyone’s guilty but you, huh? Next you’ll tell me you didn’t steal the money either.” I sneered.

“I did steal the money,” Bucholz insisted. “but only ‘cause it was in the same chest as Schulte’s account log. That’s what I was after. That’s what they sent me for.”

The floor spun. We slid under a platform rotating above. It passed so close that my nose pressed down against my face. Bucholz kept talking.

“They sent me to get in with Schulte so I could get my hands on the account log.”

“Who is they?” I asked.

“The one you slugged. He was part of it.” Bucholz answered. “But the smaller guy, he was in charge.”

“Smaller?” I said. “Not William Hunt?”

Mention of Hunt’s name made Bucholz seize in panic.

“That man is insane.” Bucholz said. “He planned the con. There’s a judge from New York. Schulte’s account log lists him as an investor in the slave business.”

“They want to blackmail a judge?”

“Yes.” Bucholz whined. “Something about the war and the government. I don’t know why for sure. You’re the bloody detective.”

The slab clattered and tilted. I felt a rush of blood behind my eyes. The floor beneath us became a wall beside us. We were in a hallway, sure to collapse as quickly as it had appeared.

The savant sprinted ahead. Bucholz and I followed.

“Sadie. What did I get you into?” Bucholz said to himself. “So much danger. No wonder you lied to the cops.”

He turned to me with wild urgency in his eyes.

“Get me out of here.” Bucholz said. “Find a way to get me out of this place and I’ll bring you the chest, show you the account log.”

The Pinkertons still had ties to that dandy Harry Vinton in Washington.

“You’re a foreigner, right?” I said. “I bet we could have you deported.”

“Fine. Anything. Just give me a chance. I’ll dig up the chest for you.”

At the end of the corridor, we crouched and slid into a corner. There was no floor. We fell, landing in a prison cell where Saul was waiting for us.

“I’ll do the digging, pal.”

Bucholz tried to jump behind me. I was already in the grips of Saul’s goon.

“Tell me where it is.” Saul said.

Bucholz shook his head. Saul grabbed his face in both hands.

“I just want to hear you say it. You buried it at the farm.”

Saul stabbed a piece of iron, filed to a sharp edge, into Bucholz’ ribs.

“She has it, doesn’t she? Your little peach. I want to hear you say it.”

“Saul, please . . .” Bucholz said.

I struggled to get loose, elbowing the man holding me. I even bit his arm. It was no use. He had me pinned.

The cell door fell away as guards stormed the scene. Saul drove the spike all the way into Bucholz’ chest. The accused murderer rolled beside me. He took shallow breaths and stared at nothing.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

June, 1861

I looked for high ground to take a scan of Chesapeake Bay with the viewport goggles. There was no easy way up. The hills were a no man’s land.

Union ships were not firing this way. They were more concerned with merchant vessels at port. This didn’t stop Confederates in the hills from firing all manner of outdated cannon at the northern fleet.

The ground shook. Flack fell everywhere. The safest place was the docks, which neither side viewed as a target.

Wearing the goggles, I peered down into that part of the harbor. If I was lucky, maybe I could see a way to cut from there to a better vantage. As it turned out, there was no need.

The Hampton Roads shipyard was active. This was to be expected. Unfinished boats in the harbor made good targets. They could only be protected inside the factory dry dock.

Hampton Roads was a modern facility capable of assembling fifteen boats at a time. All the machinery and materials required for these huge projects were on site. At full capacity, there were enough welders, fitters and engineers to occupy a small town. Further, if circumstances required emergency service in another part of the country, Hampton Roads could even detach from shore and sail along the coastline.

Men worked in teams. They hooked boats in the quay onto winches reaching from the factory wall, and hoisted them onto a conveyor. Nothing was out of the ordinary except that some of the men wore blue slacks. Others wore grey. Some used green sashes to hold their pants up. Others used red sashes.

Men are vile and stupid. A man will eat a dollar bill just to keep you from taking it then cut his own guts open to buy a flash of your skirt. Their code of honor is a study in nonsense and hypocrisy. There is only one thing you can count on from men. They will die for their colors.

Knowing this, it caught my eye that teams loading ships into dry dock at Hampton Roads mixed different pieces of Union and Confederate uniforms together. Such a thing would be heresy among army regulars. These were the troops I had been sent to find.

I shaved a fresh flint chip, loaded an ultraviolet flare into its sling and lit the fuse. My arms were still sore from my fight with the Golden Circle. I gritted my teeth when the spring released and the sling fired.

I flipped the lens over my goggles to watch the flare streak through the sky. Despite the smoke and cloud cover, I saw it explode.

I waited. Operators on the Cumberland bomber high above fired their own signal. They were tracking behind me as planned.

I discarded my protective gear, save for pistol, and hiked down to the shipyard. I wore a brown pantsuit, frayed at the hem, with a man’s shirt buttoned to its collar. The cuffs and one breast pocket were stained with ink. I also dabbed ink between my index finger and thumb. The outfit stank of cigarettes.

I carried myself with a haughty posture but looked like I could not afford to buy a cup of coffee. This was my disguise. I was a newspaper writer.

I crossed paths with enough journalists. They followed me home or posed as clients in crisis, always offering to tell my side of the Harrisburg story before making me out to be an even bigger harlot than the ones who came before.

What I learned about writers is this; they want to feel brave doing something that carries no risk. The ones who turned my name into a synonym for fallen women made it seem, in their articles, like they were putting their lives in danger to tell the truth. I knew them well enough to pull this off.

The avenue leading to Hampton Roads shipyard was empty. With the Union fighting blockade runners and Confederates firing at the Union, not even a stray shell landed on that street. It was intact and safe.

I walked down the avenue with my chest puffed out like I had challenged the devil to a fistfight. A sentry came into view. I sat beyond his firing range and took notes.

The sentry looked at me through a spyglass then called another to consult. They mulled for ten minutes. The first sentry picked up his rifle and approached.

“You there.” He said.

I didn’t answer. Already missing the safety of his post, he stammered on.

“State you business or move along.”

“I’m looking for the man who posted this.”

I held out one of the amnesty notices recovered from Charleston.

“The Tribune wants to publish it.” I said. “I’d rather let the man who printed it have his say for our readers.”

The Tribune never printed the names of its writers, preferring to for the paper to take all the credit for news they broke. My cover was plausible. The sentry saw an opportunity to get ahead by bringing publicity to their cause.

I went back to taking notes. A professional writer would be aloof, forgetting the soldier as soon as he stopped speaking.

“I can bring you to that man.” He said.

I followed him to the factory floor. A dozen ships sat on the conveyor with more queuing on the winches. Soldiers drew every vessel at Hampton Roads inside.

I felt the eyes of men on me from every corner. Some pretended not to notice me. Others flexed under heavy weight so I would notice them. They were like so many apes presenting their swollen rumps.

At the back of the building, I crossed over a metal grate. Below my feet, titanic clamps held the shipyard in place on the shoreline.

I was escorted into a room. Walls were covered with technical drawings detailing every facet of a ship’s design. The boat on display was to be loaded down with a propulsion system I had never seen before. It churned the very depths of the ocean. The sketches were beautiful.

“What do you want?” A man said.

He startled me. My eyes fixed on him and I was startled again.

He was hideous. His skin looked dead. It was far too thick, so tough that it seemed a strain for him to move. His body was a callous. The man’s face was the same. His eyes flitted in swollen sockets. Nothing moved when he spoke; not his lips, not his brow. His face was a mask.

“I am from the Washington Tribune.” I said.

“I mean, what do you want . . . Detective.”

The awful man saw surprise on my face. He might have smiled. I couldn’t tell.

“The warship Cumberland steams off the ocean.” He said. “It snares a single vessel, holds it briefly then lets it go. An airship escorts that boat to dock. Moments later, it blows up. Out runs infamous Pinkerton agent Kate Warne.”

I backed away. How could he have been watching the whole time?

“Be at ease. You are safe.” He said. “Please, what do you want?”

“Are you Major Robert Anderson?”

“Yes.”

I reached into my blazer.

“This is for you.”

I handed him the letter Harry Vinton had given Mr. Pinkerton. He read it on the spot.

“It’s from the President.” He said. “He asks me to return to Washington.”

Anderson dropped the letter on a table. That it came from Abraham Lincoln was of no importance to him.

“Mr. Lincoln is going to lose this war before he even fights it.” He said.

“He is the President.” I said.

“He is a confused man who thinks he can win by not using his weapons.”

“Maybe he prefers not to slaughter his own people.”

Anderson stared at me in silence. It was the most unnerving feeling, to be looked at by that man. His face was a stone silhouette, a badly rendered statue.

“I was made this way when the steam chamber at Fort Sumter exploded.” Anderson said. “This deformity saved my life. The island exploded. I skimmed over the water like a pebble.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I hoped to settle with General Beauregard here at Chesapeake. He isn’t here.”

I didn’t understand.

“None of the rebel leaders are here. They are staying away. They don’t think Lincoln will last. When his ridiculous blockade is shot down in court, the government will fall.”

The man’s arrogance was more offensive than his appearance.

“And you will take the President’s place?” I said. “Lead the Union to victory?”

“I will force them to take up the fight.”

He was a boaster. This disgusting man with his misfit army was just like so many others. He thought he was strong because weak men followed him.

I was no weak man.

Anderson discarded the President’s appeal like so much garbage. He thought the outcome of a country’s war against itself could be turned by his deformed hand.

I reached into my boot for the pistol. Standing straight, looking Anderson in the eye, I shot him in the neck.

He fell against the wall. Wonderfully intricate pictures fell onto that wicked man.

Soldiers rushed in. I recognized one of them. It was the Lieutenant who visited my cabin on the Cumberland. Rifles were cocked, poised to shoot me down.

“No!” Anderson said.

He climbed back to his feet. The ball I fired was lodged in the skin of his throat. He pulled it away and dropped it on the floor.

“I have a question, Miss Warne.” He said. “I have wondered about it since my accident. You claim not to remember what happened on that train, that drugs wiped your memory away.”

The floor shook. Hampton Roads shipyard detached from the shore. Anderson went on.

“That is a lie, isn’t it? I was boiled alive. If my brain could turn that memory into an empty hole, it would.”

The Lieutenant grabbed me from behind and bound my arms against my chest. Anderson’s face was only inches from mine.

“You know exactly what happened on that train.” He said. “The things they say about you in the papers are close enough to the truth, aren’t they? The fact is, you are one of those people who prefer the company of monsters.”

They dragged me outside. The bomber that deployed from the Cumberland was waiting on shore. Officers of that noble warship had mutinied and joined Anderson.

We climbed in. The shipyard was a quarter mile into Chesapeake Bay, drawing fire. The airship lifted. I saw the Cumberland in the distance. She pulled well back of the fighting.

“All is ready, Sir.” The Lieutenant said.

The shipyard plowed through boats, approaching the entrance to Chesapeake Bay. Anderson kept his eyes on the water as he spoke.

“The President cannot hide behind his blockade any longer.”

Hampton Roads shipyard exploded. Steam engines from every Union ship mounted on conveyors inside detonated at once.

At first, the force of the blast sucked all other ships toward it. This lasted a heartbeat before Chesapeake was swallowed in a ball of shattered earth. When that bubble burst, a screeching noise preceded a concussion so strong that it nearly swept us out of the sky.

Chesapeake Bay was gone. Everyone was dead.

“Find somewhere to land over Union territory.” Anderson said. “Miss Warne will prefer to travel on her own, I suspect.”

They left me at Georgetown. The Lieutenant who betrayed my mission to Anderson dropped a sack of supplies at my feet. He was none too happy with the decision to let me walk away. Anderson saw nothing to gain from either holding me or killing me.

I watched the airship disappear and wondered whether Anderson had been right. The weapons were at play now. America was at war.

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

July, 1861

Bucholz died in the Ryker’s Island infirmary two days after being stabbed in his cell. He was an innocent man.

We could not say who murdered Henry Schulte. It might have been one of Schulte’s hunters, as Stark’s free slave suggested. Whoever it was, we knew it wasn’t Bucholz.

Ernie Stark was held in solitary confinement after the fracas. A guard at the facility contacted our Chicago office to ask about his status with the Agency and to suggest we retrieve him from the mad assignment.

With Robert at Norwalk, pursuing evidence that connected the Waring farm to the Schulte murder, it was difficult for us to extract Stark. My son had made some deal with local prosecutors.

I was happy, at that point, not to have fired our lawyer Byron Hayes. He set about having Stark released. It was a tricky affair.

Kate Warne never discussed her encounter with Major Anderson in detail. She confirmed that it was him and assured Vinton that she delivered the President’s letter. Beyond that, she said little. Having read her private account, her silence was worrying.

We were losing her. I didn’t know what to do.

Kate withdrew from us further when Anderson’s prediction, in part, came true. President Lincoln continued to defend his blockade in the courts. The case in New York loomed. The question of whether Judge Mansfield had been corrupted was still unanswered.

Amid this uncertainty, the President took a first step toward the fate Major Anderson was trying to bring about. I had wanted to keep us out of the war. Every decision I took during led us further into the conflict.

“Whereas an insurrection against the United States has broken out, I, Abraham Lincoln, call forth the Union militia to suppress said insurrection. The first service assigned to the forces will be to re-possess the forts, places, and property which have been seized from the Union. In every event, the utmost care will be observed to avoid any devastation, any destruction or any disturbance of peaceful citizens in any part of the country.”

- Abraham Lincoln, May 1861

*   *   *

Repository Note:

My objection to the Justice Department’s interference in our work has been dismissed. It was described as frivolous by a federal auditor and I have been reprimanded on record by senior managers here at the Library. Needless to say, my request for more staff to explore the Pinkerton papers has been quashed. It is a shame in every sense of the word. On one hand, I would like to know what became of the son’s investigation. The Pinkerton cases are as intriguing to me as their political entanglements. More significantly, though, I am struggling to make sense of a history I thought I understood but does not agree with Pinkerton’s claims. Not being allowed to pursue these questions will be the greatest disappointment and failure of my career.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2010 by David Luchuk. All rights reserved.

Published by Audio Joe Inc.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

FIRST DIGITAL EDITION

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information is available upon request

ISBN 978-0-9867424-1-5

THE PINKERTON FILES, VOLUME 3:

A Burglar’s Fate

David Luchuk

Repository Note:

Files hidden among administrative papers of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency confirm that, after the election of Abraham Lincoln, Allan Pinkerton pursued a series of cases that drove his operatives into the civil war. These investigations, which included a plot to kill the President and a murder tied to the Union blockade of Confederate ports, were uncovered as part of the Library’s effort to catalogue the Pinkerton archive. Our work was barred for a time by the Justice Department but a consortium of citizen groups funded by a private donor won an injunction forcing the documents to be released. It must have cost a fortune to beat Justice in court. I can’t imagine why anyone would pay that bill. Whatever the reason, we are free to continue looking for new entries in Pinkerton’s secret cache.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

August, 1861

Clients are turning their backs on our Agency. As a young man, when I first stepped from behind a policeman’s badge in Chicago, I knew what it was to be independent. Only now, when the vigour I have lost outweighs the wisdom I gained, do I know what it is to be alone.

I built this Agency from nothing. What lengths will I go to save it? The decision facing me now will provide an answer.

Harry Vinton visited me again. The boy has some backbone.

Bodies of dead soldiers are still being cleared at Bull Run. Neither the White House nor the Confederate capital fell in that skirmish. It produced only two outcomes. President Lincoln’s militia may now be called an army and the southern rebellion is officially a war.

In spite of these blasphemies, Vinton wore a broad smile as he knocked on my door. He had not been to our offices since convincing me to send Kate Warne to Chesapeake Bay. Back then, Vinton did not hesitate in using my loyalty to Lincoln as leverage. It came as no surprise when he did so again.

He delivered a message from the White House and, as before, left an envelope behind with a note from Lincoln. I don’t have to break the seal to know what the letter says. Vinton made it clear.

“You agreed to help us find Major Anderson at Chesapeake. Why would this be any different?” He said.

“Our aim at Chesapeake was to prevent war, not wage it. We also took a chance on rebuilding Kate Warne’s reputation. I would say it was very different.”

“Ms. Warne has reclaimed her career . . .”

“Whatever you have her doing in Washington, she is not working as a detective.”

“ . . . and the essential point remains. The President needs your help.”

“We are not spies.”

Vinton left Chicago without a firm commitment. President Lincoln is waiting for my answer. With clients walking away from our Agency, it would be a comfort to view the choice as mere financial necessity. The White House pays handsomely.

I won’t stoop to self delusion. This decision is not about money.

There was a time when opening my agents’ private files troubled my conscience. Maybe I still have some of the naive Dundee cooper in me. That choice was simple by comparison.

The President would have me expose my detectives to the peril of open war. The conflict between Union and Confederates shows no sign of being resolved. Even if there was some prospect of ending the war quickly, we do not have the skills to do what the President asks.

I trained my detectives to know the criminal mind and master surveillance techniques. My operatives invested their careers, sometimes risked their lives, on the promise of these methods. My sons did the same. They put their faith in me.

Amid all my lessons, however, I never confided a simple truth. It is a fact that now compels me to consider espionage as a business opportunity. The truth is this: our profession collapses without the legitimacy that a client provides.

Ordinary people want to believe there is something exotic, even awful, about a detective. They hold to the notion that a detective has a finer natural instinct or is possessed of a power beyond everyday reach.

Citizens are afraid of criminals. They are afraid of suffering harm or losing property. They shrink from the idea that having something of value makes them a target. Because of this fear, detectives seem to come from another world.

We are few in number. We face criminals with little more than a clean mind informed by reason. Our craft can appear to be a kind of sorcery. It is nothing of the sort.

Individuals drift toward professions they are most suited to fit. A successful merchant becomes so, not due to any mysterious ability, but by managing assets and employees with care. For all these qualities, what would a merchant be without buyers? Nothing could prevent that person from being reduced to a hawker chased from every street corner.

It is the same for a detective. Our business requires inventiveness and honesty. Without clients, though, even the best detective becomes little more than a clever hooligan.

If there is anything exotic attached to our trade, it comes from the secrecy required to expose a well crafted crime. I mock that need for secrecy by reading my agent’s private files. This intrusion no longer troubles me.

We are under attack. I sense it in the same way one might hear a quickening breath before a thief springs from the shadows. You don’t need to see a threat to know it exists.

One of my agents is dead. Another is lost; to us as well as herself. My younger son is a criminal. We have a freelancer in prison and a slave on the payroll. Clients have lost confidence in us. President Lincoln would fill the void with rich wartime service. We are coming unhinged.

It seems impossible that so many troubles could have been orchestrated by a single enemy but I cannot ignore that they are all tied together by our recent work. Threats are gathering strength. I don’t know what to do.

Soon, we will be alone. Our Agency will be nothing.

The latest screw turned after Robert’s conviction. He and our lawyer, Byron Hayes, made a fool’s pact. They abandoned any attempt at an acquittal in order to draw John Kennedy of the New York Police into an argument over the circumstances of my son’s arrest.

Robert believes that Kennedy played some part in embezzling funds to support the Confederate south but his stunt with Hayes proved nothing.

For a brief period, after the trial, newspapers lampooned Kennedy’s refusal to explain his actions. Once those stories ran their course, journalists turned to us. Kate Warne’s reputation was savaged anew. There was no sport in assaulting a fallen woman so writers roasted the Agency.

By this time, Robert had duped me into putting him in charge of the Henry Schulte murder investigation. He sent a rogue agent to Ryker’s Island and took a freed slave to the town of Norwalk. Robert was out of contact when the most damning pieces ran.

Worst among them was an interview with S. M. Felton of the PWB railway. Prior to the war, Felton hired us to prevent an act of sabotage against his rail line. Discoveries made during that investigation allowed us to save President Lincoln from William Hunt’s Golden Circle.

In his interview, Felton claimed that we abandoned his case and showed no regard for the security of his business. These were outrageous accusations. They were also false.

Felton endorsed our change in focus when the plot against the President came to light. He participated in the investigation. I would have pushed for a retraction and public apology if I thought it might have helped. The damage was done.

Our Agency was losing contracts before the Felton article. Many clients expressed concern over Kate Warne’s character in particular. I believed their worry to be unfounded. She was wickedly abused while saving President Lincoln. Sadly, I now know that her mental stability was in fact shaken by the ordeal.

Ms. Warne has become obsessed with pursuing Major Robert Anderson of the Union army. Against my wishes, in the aftermath of the disaster at Chesapeake Bay, she travelled to Washington hoping that Harry Vinton would help her apprehend Anderson.

She was a promising detective. Today, the fact that she is employed by our Agency scares clients away.

The impact of Felton’s article stretched further. Robert gained a certain measure of fame during his trial. He set about becoming a public enemy as part of his absurd plan to entrap Kennedy. His notoriety made a bad situation worse.

While Robert was in Norwalk and Ernie Stark was at Ryker’s Island, our client voided their contract. For the Norwalk Police to release us from an investigation already underway was a fresh blot on our reputation. It sent other clients running.

It may also send my son to prison. The suspended sentence that followed his conviction was conditional on him leading the Schulte case.

Robert and the slave were in Norwalk chasing a man they believed to be William Hunt when this occurred. As a result, I dispatched my older son, William, to Ryker’s Island along with Byron Hayes to negotiate Ernie Stark’s release.

It pained me to intervene on behalf of a man who stood idly by while Timothy Webster was murdered. I would rather have left him at Ryker’s to meet the only fate he deserves.

We had received too much negative press. We could not have another agent die on duty.

William was to resolve the matter quickly. I needed him for the only case we had left; the Geneva bank robbery. He was the one person I knew I could trust.

William and my assistant Ginny Higgs, that is. I would not have made any progress in understanding the forces aligned against us if not for her.

Have I made any real progress? There was a time when I would have said yes.

After Webster’s murder and William Hunt’s escape, I felt that actors in the conspiracy would be revealed. The President’s call for aid at Chesapeake Bay pushed us into the fight between Union and Confederates. I was certain that information would be jarred loose. At every turn, I felt I was on the verge of understanding. Each time, I was left looking for more.

An awful uncertainty has crept into my thoughts. Perhaps I am just an old man jumping at shadows. Are we under attack because I have not unmasked the people conspiring against us? Or are we at the brink of failure because I am trying to unmask people who don’t exist?

With doubt pressing down, I must choose between two paths. If I do what the President asks we will become Union spies. If I refuse, we may cease to exist.

I hoped that our investigation of the Geneva bank robbery would help me avoid the decision. It ought to have been an easy case. With a modest success, we could have regained the trust of more significant clients. The President’s offer could have been set aside.

I am reminded again of the Dundee simpleton I used to be in a former life. With age, maybe we all revert to simpler ways of looking at things even when it leads us to error.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

June, 1861

For certain, I drank too much bourbon at the Emerald Tap House. My wits could have been slowed by the liquor. Even so, the manners of small town police were hard to understand.

I delivered a murder suspect into custody. I provided audio evidence that, Ray assures me, amounts to a confession of the man’s role in killing Henry Schulte. I expected some enthusiasm, if not gratitude.

While patrons at the Emerald recovered from the optical stunner, Ray and I dragged one of our attackers to Norwalk police station. This man had conspired with other slave hunters to kill Schulte and take over his business. William Hunt was, that very night, on his way to a local farmhouse to recover the dead man’s account log.

It was sensational progress. At the station, the overnight constable scrambled from his booth to lecture us about a committee and an annulment clause in our contract.

“Your mandate may already be void. You cannot seize a man without valid authority.” He said. “And what on earth is this?”

He motioned toward Ray.

“He’s a deputy of the Pinkerton Agency.”

“My God, did this man participate in the arrest?”

The prisoner moaned, coming back to his senses while clamped in the harness restraint. He fell forward and retched. A belly full of beer and food spilled out.

“Detective, release this man.” The constable said. “You and your deputy will wait for the Captain to settle the question of your mandate.”

“When will that be?”

“The committee should break with a decision tonight. The Captain will be here by morning; six o’clock at the latest.”

It seemed we had as much chance of being arrested as the suspect. Ray was the first to act. He held our prisoner down and unlocked the restraint, winching it back into its box.

“Police say release him.” He said. “But we’re not waiting. That was Hunt at the bar.”

The constable stepped around a puddle of sick. He pointed a finger at Ray.

“You do not have a valid mandate. You may not seize citizens in our county.”

Ray held out his hand. The constable recoiled from the black man’s touch. He leaned away, caught between stepping back into the vomit or forward toward Ray’s palm. The weasel cringed and moved off, choosing to stand in the suspect’s last meal.

“You wait here for yer’ Captain.” Ray said. “Tell him we’ll be at Waring farm. Maybe we’ll still be there at six o’clock.”

It was the sort of answer I would like to have given.

“We’ll try not to do any seizing until he gets there.” I said.

Ray gave me a queer look. It wasn’t quite as biting a comment as I hoped.

We hurried back to the hotel to gather equipment and sketch a plan. Our strategy didn’t amount to much. We would go to the Waring farm and sneak in to the barn or, if necessary, the house. By finding the account log, we were likely to come across William Hunt.

There was nothing complicated about it. My equipment took more time to prepare.

I stripped down to my undergarments. Father would have shaken his head.

One of our clients in the mining sector invented this jackleg chassis. The idea was to equip a single miner with tools and torque enough to drill, break and clear remote coal seams deep underground.

The chassis locked around my waist with a cinch attached to steel bands over the shoulders and across the chest. A steam chamber was housed inside a flexible brace running up the spine. Joints located at the knees, hips, shoulders and elbows were fixed with disc shaped fasteners welded into the steel frame. Everything from borehole drills and explosive detonators to crossbar roof supports and mini conveyors could be attached to the chassis.

Two narrow pistons ran down the right leg. These powered a winch that ended with a carbine bit jutting from the toe of my boot. A miner could kick the bit into a stubborn piece of stone and use the hydraulic winch to pry it loose. It was the chassis’ only permanent attachment.

I pulled my pants over the pistons and peered into a crate I brought from Chicago. There were so many options. I fastened a borehole driller to the chassis’ left elbow. It extended past my wrist, eight inches beyond a clenched fist.

A dragline caster went on my right arm. It was heavier and required more dexterity. With it, I could fire an iron sinker as far as fifty feet ahead by whipping my arm in a compact arc. In a mine shaft, a filament wire would slash rock and debris covering a coal deposit when the sinker retracted. For my ends, it would be more useful fighting in close quarters.

We set out for the Waring property. Ray carried other tools in a sack. He refused my offer to share the equipment.

“Yer’ better with that stuff.” He said. “I do fine in my own way.”

It was true. Even with the chassis, I cringed at the thought of coming to blows with Ray.

We took our bearings from a hilltop a quarter mile away. Viewport goggles gave us a clear sightline but low cloud cover and a quarter moon obscured some of the detail.

The farm had a familiar layout. A house sat on the highest perch, a hundred yards from the main entrance. Ruts of a wagon path ran from the house down to a pair of buildings. One was a tool shed. The other was a barn. Crops stretched out of view beyond.

A flicker of candlelight danced in the house. It started upstairs then descended.

“Comin’ out.” Ray said.

Two figures emerged. The first was William Hunt. The second was Sadie Waring, holding the candle. Hunt leaned across and blew it out once they stepped off the porch.

Our investigation had revealed that the scoundrel William Bucholz, who had been accused of killing Henry Schulte, was innocent. He claimed to be with Sadie Waring on the night of the murder. Her refusal to confirm this alibi led to his arrest.

“Did she betray Bucholz from the start? Maybe she has a stake in this.” I said.

Sadie might have been in line for a piece of the slave hunting business. That would have been enough motivation to dupe Bucholz into trusting her. She might also have helped blackmail Judge Terrence Mansfield with the account log.

It was essential that we find that device before William Hunt. Most think of an account log as a book. In fact, it is more of an iron abacus. It is an adding machine that tracks cash flow.

Entrepreneurs across the Union have begun sharing information about the cost of goods and the volume of major sales. Account logs are plugged into ledgers at major banks to update investments, liquidity and returns.

This information helps banks and stock managers set commodity prices. Slaves are still a commodity in America. Schulte’s account log is part of a system that sets the price of men.

“She’s no partner of his.” Ray said. “Hunt’s got a knife on her. He can kill her quick.”

I squinted. Hunt did seem to have something propped under Sadie’s arm.

We cut a wide path to the Waring property. It was long but, keeping out of sight, we ran most of the way. By the time we reached the fence, candlelight winked again inside the barn.

I crawled to the building. Years of exposure left part of the wall sagging. I jammed the carbide bit under the panels and pumped my heel to draw steam into the pistons.

It wouldn’t be the quietest entrance. So long as only the rotten wood fell away, I felt there was a good chance of getting inside unnoticed. I was about to squat at the knee to engage the winch when a pebble bounced off my shoulder.

Further down, Ray had pried open a feedlot door. The smell was rank. The ground was wet with animal waste. It was awful but still the better option.

We crept low past the feed stalls. Faint light flickered ahead, shining on the underside of a hay loft. Ray put a hand on my shoulder to hold me back and call attention to a hatch in the floor. Loose hay had been brushed aside. The hatch was open.

If Schulte’s account log had been inside, it was gone now. I assumed the same of William Hunt. My mind raced. How could we keep him from escaping? Where might he try to go?

Ray and I walked out from under the loft. It was a stupid mistake, an obvious trap. When I heard Sadie Waring scream above, I wasn’t surprised as much as annoyed.

William Hunt lifted the girl over his head and threw her down at us. I had seen burglars use hostages as shields. Hunt used her as a weapon.

Ray lunged forward to catch her. Hunt jumped toward me with his knife drawn.

I whipped my right arm across my torso. The iron sinker and filament wire burst from the dragline device, careening toward Hunt as he fell. I worried that the impact would be too heavy. Local police would not look kindly on me killing a man without a mandate.

Hunt hoisted his legs. His knees and ears almost touched. The sinker shot between his heels and splintered the loft. Hay and woodchip tossed in the air as the dragline retracted.

Hunt drove his boots into my chest. I slammed onto the floor. Steam canisters dug into my spine. He landed on me so hard it felt like he jumped from the loft a second time.

As Stark once said, the skin on Hunt’s face looked as though it had been pulled tight over his skull. I could see his bones. Eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. His teeth looked huge.

I saw a glint as Hunt drew back his knife. He smiled with those mad teeth. I did not feel any particular panic but it occurred to me that I was about to die. The blade swung down, slicing into my neck. Hunt would have cut my head off if Ray had not lifted him away.

The knife slid from my neck up to my jaw. Its cutting edge poked through my throat and touched the bottom of my tongue. Amid the blood and saliva, I tasted it.

Hunt hooked the blade under my chin. It dug into my jaw bone. I felt every nick and dull spot rattle through my teeth. At last, Ray threw him clear.

I fell to the floor. My body trembled in shock.

William Hunt skidded across the barn. He rolled once then got his feet underneath him. He was poised to strike even as he continued to slide from the force of Ray’s throw.

Hunt flipped his knife, caught the blade between his fingers and drew back. Taking aim at Ray, he paused then lowered his hand. Again, Hunt’s awful smile emerged.

“I thought we lost you at Harrisburg.”

“You did.” Ray said.

Hunt jammed the buck knife back into his belt. He saw Sadie Waring scramble out of the barn but made no attempt to stop her. His attention was focused on Ray.

“Dump that garbage out of yer’ bag and load the old man’s contraption.” Hunt said. “We’re leaving.”

“We’ll leave together. But not like you think.”

Ray sprung forward, striking a terrible blow against Hunt’s temple. His head was knocked so far down it tucked under his arm. The rest of his body stood firm. Ray was off balance, following through from the punch. Hunt drove his knee up into his chest.

Ray fell. I did not think such a thing was possible.

Hunt jumped on him and swiped his fingers across the deep scars on Ray’s face. He ranted in a thick southern slang that was impenetrable to me. Hunt seemed to retell the story of each lash on Ray’s skin. It was withering, all the more so because he didn’t hit him once.

Hunt stood. Ray rolled onto his hands and knees, head low.

“Be sure to kill that one before we go.” Hunt said.

Ray looked over. He did not recognize me. At that moment, more than I had been with Hunt’s knife at my throat, I was afraid.

A commotion saved me. Voices outside echoed in the barn. Hunt emptied the sack then slid Schulte’s account log inside. Ray picked it up and followed him out the back.

Police officers charged in from the front. I could hear Sadie wailing in the distance. Her father shouted about a man breaking into the house and kidnapping his girl.

They eyed me on the ground, blood spilling from my face. I saw the constable kick a first boot into my ribs. After that, something cracked me over the head.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

July, 1861

I was ready to wring Robert’s neck. I had visions of taking years off his life.

The sliding walkway came to a stop at an interview room where I was greeted by the unsmiling face of William instead. I was worried. Something must have gone wrong.

Robert was an idiot but he would never have sent me to Ryker’s Island knowing that Saul Mathews from the Golden Circle was waiting. That was the sort of thing only William would do.

Physically, the brothers shared their father’s features. The brow gives them away. Pinkertons always appear to be thinking hard even when, like Robert, they are not.

The difference between them is revealed in more delicate features. William has dry patches on his skin. His jaw sticks out. His nose bends at the ridge. It is as though their mother had an easier time giving birth to Robert and her pain is etched all over William’s face.

My shackles fell away. A wall folded behind me, cutting me off at last from the prison. I was alone with William and the Agency’s lawyer, Byron Hayes.

“Sign this.”

It was the same thing Ray ordered me to do on the train fleeing to Philadelphia. The Golden Circle had laid waste to a rail yard. I had seen Ray kill with a swipe of his hand. I was still less reluctant to sign the paper he put in front of me than I was with William.

“Don’t act like you have any options.” William said. “I don’t know what sort of deal Robert cooked up with prosecutors . . .”

“Where is Robert?”

“He is in jail, like you. The Norwalk police are handing him over in New York.”

I didn’t want to believe him. It did sound like Robert, though.

“We vouched for you as an employee of the Pinkerton Agency.” Hayes said. “That is the only reason you are being released.”

“I’m not a Pinkerton employee.”

“You will be after you sign these papers.” Hayes said.

The idea was repulsive. I spent years doing jobs that others viewed as impossible or irrelevant just to avoid being someone’s employee.

“It’s this or we send you back.” William said. “So long as you are with us, the administrators at Ryker’s will treat your file as being under review.”

“Let them review it.” I said. “I was only here because Robert wanted access to Bucholz.”

William turned to Hayes. They had rehearsed this part.

“Yes, well. A thorough review could take a long time. You would remain in custody for the duration. It would not be in your best interests, Mr. Stark.”

I signed the blasted thing. Robert and I both lost our freedom without ever getting to the bottom of Henry Schulte’s murder.

“That file is dead.” William said. “Robert was arrested for trespassing on a farm after the client voided the contract.”

“What was he doing at Waring farm?”

“I have no idea.”

Hayes stayed behind to file paperwork. William hired us a carriage to Union Station.

At the rail yard, we rode a lift to the upper platforms. As we passed between scaffolds, sparks floated onto our shoulders. A team of electricians was outfitting trains on all four levels at the same time.

Thick wires swung down to the ground. They bumped and sparked against the outside of our lift. Men snatched at the cords, fighting each other to power their tools. They yelled threats one minute then shouted encouragement as the work moved along. New York was its usual self.

I never liked this city. The people are like dogs that can’t decide who to bite first.

William led me to two rail cars he reserved for us. They were connected by a shared doorway. My car was both a sleeper and an office. It was more than I needed for a trip to Chicago.

Police files were piled on a desk beneath the window. Clothes and personal effects, confiscated after my arrest for passing bad cheques, sat in a box on the floor.

I rummaged through the items and found that police had returned the money I swindled before getting caught. My case was in limbo so my property was restored. There were four thousand dollars in my jacket.

Our train launched into the tangled Union Station exchange. William entered my room, leaving the door open so I could see the difference between our accommodations. A stocked liquor cabinet was open. Porters cleaned his pistols. Meat sizzled on a burner out of sight.

“All the information is on the desk.” He said. “It’s not a complicated case.”

“What case?”

“A bank was robbed in Geneva, on the western edge of Illinois.”

“Isn’t there enough work in the cities? Pinkertons aren’t often seen on the frontier.”

“My Father negotiated the contract himself.”

“I’m not going to Geneva.” I said.

“That’s true. I will be at Geneva. You are going to Helena in Montana.”

Our train emerged from the exchange. Walls rattled as the track unhitched. We dropped to a lower level and clattered into the back of another train, connecting for the journey.

“I will do no such thing.” I said. “If Robert is in custody, my partner will need help.”

“The black one?”

“Ray. Yes.”

William walked to my desk. He thumbed through papers and stared out the window.

“You will go where I tell you” He said. “If you don’t like it, Ryker’s Island is waiting.”

Something caught his eye through the window. We were approaching an interchange. William crossed the room again and stood in the connecting doorway.

“As for your partner, you wouldn’t find him in Norwalk anyway.”

Breath squeezed out of my lungs like a bellows. The air pressure in my cabin dropped as the seal between our cars split open. William stepped back to his room. The platform under our cars rotated in separate directions. Our train split in two.

“Ray was captured by William Hunt and taken back south.”

I ran, hoping to get a hand on William before he lifted away. When I reached the door, my car was already bolted to a slum market on a train headed for Montana. This was William’s salute. He sent me to the wilds of the United States, against my will, tied to a barrio.

As an employee of the Pinkerton Agency, any damage my room sustained would be billed back to the Chicago office. I trashed car.

A crowd gathered to watch. They smiled and laughed, having a swell time. I hunched over with my hands on my knees. One of the onlookers made a joke of offering me a drink.

“Get back!” I said.

I leered at the mob and my eyes settled on a small man at the back. His face was obscured by tattoos, just like the person who sold Ray his counterfeit slave papers. Contraband dealers with tattoos like that are common on poorer trains. The peddlers look so much alike that, on rare occasions when police round them up to investigate a crime, it is a chore to tell them apart.

The crowd broke up. He was gone. The act of looking had caused him to disappear.

I sat on the floor of my broken room. There was nothing to do but read the case file.

The crime took place in Geneva. It was a thriving frontier town, home to five thousand people. Rich soil kept farmers in business. Deep coal mines brought new investors in a steady stream. Geneva attracted rail companies, pioneer families and adventure seekers.

The only people who weren’t welcome were slave traders. Geneva was the last free territory in the west.

Like all successful towns, its core businesses supported a mix of other activities. Geneva had a school, which was open to all children within its limits. Various shops, mills and warehouses were stocked and busy. Though it was sparsely attended, a modest theatre presented shows twice a week. It is a model of what can be achieved by hardy families.

No such progress would have been possible if not for the presence of a reliable bank. True to form for Geneva, its bank operated out of the same wooden building as it did when the first farmers came looking for credit over fifty years ago. It was a modest outfit but people could trust their money to its vault.

This was the sort of case the Pinkertons always did well. The old man respects the importance of a bank. If it was odd for him to come this far just to secure a contract, it was not at all unusual for him to help a bank get its money back.

On June 22nd of this year, just after six o’clock in the evening, the town was shutting down. Cattle herders brought their stock to market that day so a number of large deposits had been made. Only two clerks remained; Eugene Pearson and Grace Patton.

They were filing receipts when a knock on the door signalled one final customer to be served. Ms. Patton was closest but Eugene Pearson waved her away. She had a chronic respiratory illness and often suffered from fatigue.

Pearson opened the door and was pushed straight back by a man in grimy overalls. The intruder’s face was covered by a wide strip of torn denim and smears of black grease around the eyes. A second thief hurried in behind, dressed the same.

Pearson pedalled back. Patton screeched then heaved forward, wheezing for air. The first thief ran to the girl and held a hand over her mouth. As Eugene Pearson watched in a daze, the second thief cracked the butt of a pistol over his head.

They piled the employees into the vault and locked the door. Alone at the tills, the men collected twenty thousand dollars from the cattle transactions. They took their time to clean grease off their brows and don new outfits before leaving. The robbers melted into the evening bustle, escaping without incident.

Inside the vault, it was a desperate scene. Grace Patton tried to yell for help but could barely find enough breath to keep from passing out. Eugene Pearson slumbered for an hour. In that time, Ms. Patton struggled to her feet every few minutes, stepped over Pearson’s body on the floor, and hollered until she saw stars in her eyes.

None could hear her. No one came.

She gave up hope and retreated to a corner of the vault to endure the pain of her burning lungs. Finally, Eugene Pearson opened his eyes. He sat up and asked,

“Is it over?”

She nodded. Pearson shoved against the door three of four times. It was no use. With a grin, he snapped a finger as an idea came to mind. He opened a drawer filled with coins and withdrew a half dollar. Eugene Pearson then did an extraordinary thing.

He forced the narrow edge of the coin into the face of a screw. With great effort, he loosened it and moved on to all the others holding the lock in place. It broke apart. Pearson helped Grace Patton to her feet. They exited the vault and contacted police.

That was the story bank officials provided when they hired the Agency. The first thing William did was tear it to pieces.

Pinkertons view crime as a moral failure. The old man drills this into them from the moment they’re hired. Find the moral failing and you’ll find the culprit.

The only one who doesn’t subscribe to this dogma is Robert. He knows there is more to crime than can be contained in one grey haired Scotsman’s opinion about morality. William, on the other hand, is a true believer.

His first note on the Geneva file was on these lines:

The ordinary promptings of manhood should have induced some resistance. That an active man should not have shown even ordinary courage, not have made every effort to rescue a delicate girl, marks him as a base coward. Even if powerless to defend Miss Patton, Pearson could have raised an alarm. Short of that, he might have tried to close the vault door. Any of these simple actions surely would have thrown the criminals into disarray.

-Pinkerton, W.

William has a harsh view of manhood. The only thing Pearson would have done by intervening is gotten himself shot. Nevertheless, William’s suspicions would only deepen. His case file reads:

Prior to meeting bank President Henry Silby, I tested Pearson’s claim about the coin and lock. In Silby’s office, I tried to remove the screws holding a door handle in place. I was unable to move them. Silby entered as I strained with the loose change. Pearson is not telling the truth. I conveyed this certainty to Silby but he insists that Pearson’s loyalty is beyond doubt.

-Pinkerton, W.

The most infuriating part of dealing with a Pinkerton is how often they turn out to be right. Pearson could not have dismantled a bank vault with his half dollar. He was no victim.

William reported the findings to his father. The old man advised him to follow the Pearson trail but also ensure the client believed he was pursuing a new lead. This was unlike Pinkerton. I never heard of the Agency making any effort to placate a client in that way.

Doing as his father ordered, William interviewed potential witnesses at nearby stores and spoke with bank employees about the weeks before the heist. He never expected these efforts to generate useful leads.

The case broke when William visited Grace Patton, recovering at her parents’ home from respiratory attacks brought on by the incident. The house was small but well cared for, like Geneva itself. The young woman was swaddled under blankets in an airy parlour.

She described all the familiar facts of the case. Her dutiful mother stood watch to ensure the Chicago detective didn’t press too hard. As the interview came to a close, Grace asked her mother for a glass of water. Alone with William, she made an important comment. The case file reads:

Ms. Patton said there was “something strange” about the robbery. Three days before, Eugene Pearson opened an account for a salesman who passes through Geneva every few months. This man was not poor but in no position to make large deposits. Pearson gave him a box near those of the bank’s richest clients. The two spent a long time in the deposit room. “That is the part of the bank where robbers knew to look for the ranchers’ money.”

-Pinkerton, W.

William reviewed the bank’s records, never mentioning his findings to Mr. Silby. He didn’t want to raise the client’s ire by questioning Pearson’s integrity.

Among notes he took while scanning the records, William wrote the name of a man who opened an account with a mere fifty dollars. Deposit boxes located near his made thousands of dollars worth of transactions every week.

That man’s name was Newton Edwards. His deposit slip was signed by Eugene Pearson.

Pity the grifter whose name falls into the hands of a Pinkerton. Newton Edwards was on borrowed time from the moment Grace Patton agreed to speak with William.

Tracking the suspect was easy. William posed as a messenger delivering product samples to Edwards. He visited every hotel in Geneva, along with any saloon that had beds upstairs and any home advertizing a room to let.

His routine was the same at every stop. He leaned on clerks and grilled managers, claiming to know for a fact that Edwards stayed at each establishment. After two days of pestering, William caught the trail. The case file reads:

Wiltshire Rooming House. Night manager Elmore Hicks refused the samples saying Newton Edwards was no longer welcome. He boarded at the Wiltshire but was evicted on his last visit. Unregistered guests called on him late several times, one carrying a gun. Mr. Hicks did not know where to reach Edwards. He asked me to take two telegraphs, which arrived after the eviction. One was from the New Orleans police; Edwards’ wife declaring him missing. The second was a notice of delivery. A crate Edwards shipped to Montana was never collected.

-Pinkerton, W.

The trail ended with those telegraphs. William wanted me to pick it up in Montana.

The first telegraph wasn’t much help. Newton Edwards abandoned his wife to be part of the Geneva robbery. They had a home in New Orleans. That was the same city where Timothy Webster (RIP) first caught up with the Golden Circle. Trouble orbits New Orleans like a moon.

The delivery notice was more useful. The contents of that crate were important enough for Edwards to send it express. He didn’t think this part through. Express deliveries require a signature. The recipient refused to sign, probably because the crate was tied to the robbery.

This gave me an idea. I pushed the case file aside and walked through the wreckage of my cabin. Stepping into the slum beyond, I tried to find the man with tattoos on his face.

Through the fog left behind by factories and smelters, lit from within by sparks bouncing off welding stations and repair shops, bisected by causeways and churned by the occasional oil fire, one wasn’t encouraged to wander. I looked for a runner in the crowd.

Runners were akin to waiters in a tavern. People shouted at them, flashed money and pleaded for service. If you were in their good graces, there was no limit to what you could buy. If you fell afoul, the barrio became a dangerous place.

The runners had watched me kick my cabin to pieces along with everyone else. They had also seen me arrive with a Pinkerton. They would not be inclined to trust me. One of them laughed at the sight of me, recalling my tantrum.

“I need to have copies made of these documents.” I said.

I held the telegraphs in one hand. The runner waved me away.

I raised my other hand. The thousand dollars clenched in my fist was high enough for everyone to see.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

July, 1861

The seamstress sent one of her assistants to my hotel room. I asked for the large girl with thick hands who I’d seen in the shop’s back room. My corset needed to be tighter than any of the princesses from the showroom could have managed.

Women dress the way they do because they have other women in mind. Men, stupid brutes that they are, will never understand. They stamp their feet at the time it takes a woman to primp, all the while repeating that they look fine already. No woman would put such effort into appealing to a man’s taste.

The real audience is other women. Fashion is a way for us to speak to each other. No message has ever been delivered more quickly or clearly than the malice broadcast by wearing the same necklace as another woman at a party.

I bent over a chair. Tiny breaths of air leaked into my lungs as the girl bound the corset tight. My ribs bent. I felt blood vessels burst around my eyes. I didn’t mind. Makeup would cover the blemish.

Tonight, every woman would see how far I was prepared go. One woman, in particular, would learn how much I could take, how much she would have to do to break me.

She was the widowed wife of a State Department official, a southern belle who kept her lofty status afloat by throwing lavish soirees to mark every season in the social calendar. Her name was known to all who mattered in the capital: Rose Greenhow.

She and Washington were the same. As a city, Washington was the mud flat of world capitals. It was impossible to go anywhere without getting filthy. The White House was a majestic symbol but, marooned in dismal surroundings, it looked like a real estate investment gone bad.

In spite of this, Washington was the American capital. For as long as a great nation stood, the city would not be ignored.

Rose Greenhow reflected this same quality. Her husband tried to turn a crass Maryland chamber maid into a worldly snob. Southern roots run too deep. In conversation, she made a person feel as though they had said too much, even after saying nothing at all. It was impossible to trust her sincerity, yet equally impossible to avoid her company.

For all her disagreeable traits, she could not be ignored. If you had business in the capital, you made an appearance at the Greenhow functions.

I was half dressed when a knocked sounded at my door. It was her. The breach of etiquette left no room for doubt.

The seamstress girl escorted her into my bedchamber, voice wavering as she announced Mrs. Greenhow. I sent the girl home with a generous tip. Once we were alone, Rose reverted to plantation manners.

“I am un-inviting you Ms. Warne.” She said.

“Our friend, Senator Wilson, is expecting me tonight.”

“I will extend your regrets. Tonight’s fundraiser is beside the point, though. I want you to leave this city. Whatever invitation brought you to Washington, consider it revoked.”

Harry would have treasured this exchange. It was the sort of thing he told me to expect.

No one invited me to Washington. Chesapeake Bay was carved out of the earth. Thousands died in an explosion caused by Major Robert Anderson. Nothing could have stopped me from coming. I wanted to see Anderson hang for his crime and believed Harry Vinton could point me to him.

My first day was awful, a total embarrassment. I presented myself at Vinton’s office before sunrise. I left after the last intern turned out the lights, escorted by security from the premises. Harry had never even entered the building.

Harry has a door with his name on it but he does not work at an office. That was my first Washington lesson. As attache to the President, he treats the whole city like his office. Everyone’s desk is Harry’s desk.

The next morning, a court decision was expected out of New York. The ruling would help confirm that President Lincoln’s blockade of southern ports was legal under the Constitution. I cornered Harry Vinton at a press junket following the announcement.

“President Lincoln is pleased, naturally. He never doubted the court system in New York.” Harry said. “There is nothing illegal about the blockade.”

With a nod and a wink, he exited the scrum. He did not appear to notice me so I followed him as far as the lobby where a police detail surrounded me.

“Gentlemen, please. You would only hurt yourselves” He said. “Ms. Warne is a friend.”

I walked with him. That is the only way to speak with Harry; in motion.

“I don’t know where to find Major Anderson.” He said. “If I did, the President would already have dispatched the militia to . . .”

“ . . . to die or convert.” I said. “Anderson is building an army.”

“I realize that but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Harry slipped through the morning crowd and ducked down an alley. I raced to keep up, failing to notice at first that he had led me to a ladies’ boutique.

“There is a dinner tonight in honor of General McDowell. He has been awarded command of the Union Army.”

Two women started taking my measurements. I was appalled.

“Mr. Vinton, show some restraint. We will not be dining together. If you refuse to help, there is no reason for me to be in Washington at all.”

“Surely you don’t mean to leave.”

My outburst confused Harry. He had not expected me to be so ignorant.

“Kate.” He said. “I am helping you. You have more power than you realize.”

It took time for me to understand. Washington is not like other capitals.

Social hierarchies in places like Vienna and London come in layers. They are nurtured by generations of aristocrats whose elaborate shows of privilege set them apart from the low classes.

Nothing like that exists in America. Our aristocrats are all artificial.

In America, rich families are rich and nothing more. They crave the importance that their counterparts in Europe claim as a birthright. To fill this need, they barter in secrets and gossip.

Harry made me see that I could be a dangerous woman in Washington. My most terrible secrets were splashed on the headlines. The socialites could not threaten me but, as a Pinkerton operative, I could bring frightful problems to their doors.

On my first night, I learned what that meant. We attended the McDowell function. It was dour. The fineries and excess I had seen with Harry aboard the President’s train were muted by drab military decor. Before dinner, a fine southern gentleman offered me a glass of champagne for a toast. It was spiked with the same poison that sent me into the abyss at Harrisburg.

Everyone at the party knew. They wanted to see me reel out of my mind for the fun of it.

I drank the flute. My heart slowed. Each beat was an explosion. It felt like my blood turned to sand. I thought my chest might crack open.

Soon, the pain was replaced by lightness. I felt giddy.

The gazes saved me. I felt Washington’s elite watching me. A dark mood wiped away the drug’s happy oblivion.

We toasted the General.

“To victory.”

I placed the glass down as carefully as I could. With Harry at my arm, I scoured the crowd. He supported my weight when the drug’s effects were too strong. Only one other man approached to offer a hand. Harry thanked him but declined the help.

Together, we found the gentleman who gave me the tainted drink. He stood with Mrs. Rose O’Neal Greenhow. I bowed. Ten minutes later, I was passed out in my hotel room.

The same woman now stood by my bed, weeks later, un-inviting me from Washington. It was too late. Mrs. Greenhow had become a special project of mine after the General’s dinner.

I did what the Pinkertons taught me. I watched her. I camped in the green space outside her home, followed her minions as they ran errands and kept track of her guests and visitors.

The romance I uncovered, between her and Senator Henry Wilson of Massachusetts, was a scandal in the making. Mrs. Greenhow was a southern sympathizer with connections to the Confederate rebels. Senator Wilson was part of the Union committee on Military Affairs.

The greater point of interest for me was that Senator Wilson had been the only one at General McDowell’s dinner to offer me assistance. He disapproved of Rose’s little game with the poison flute. I used that opening to torture the woman.

Harry arranged for me to brief the Military Affairs committee on the plot to kill President Lincoln. These were closed caucus meetings to which Mrs. Greenhow was not invited.

At social functions, I allowed Senator Wilson to dine on my reputation. He impressed the other men in his circle by appearing to have close ties to an infamous public figure.

He liked me. It was clear as day.

This was a nightmare for Rose Greenhow. If her heart was invested in the affair, watching me steal moments with him would have been torture. If she was using the Senator to filter information about Union war plans, the damage was just as bad.

I wanted it to hurt. She was the sort of person I vowed as a girl never to become. She climbed a ladder that only existed in her mind, and did so by attaching herself to men.

After her visit to my hotel room, I told her to expect me at the fundraiser later that night. I had no plans to leave the city.

Washington dug into its pockets to support a new kind of hospital that would serve soldiers on the front line of the coming war. Under President Lincoln, the Union army would not deploy its full arsenal of weapons against the Confederates. A proposal to turn the north’s huge technological advantage to a humane use had gained traction in Congress.

One of the biggest wartime challenges faced by a modern army was clearing wounded soldiers off the battlefield. Men sometimes waited days before medical staff could move them to a safe location. By that time, their wounds were often mortal.

To address this problem, mobile hospitals were built using the same advances that powered the weapons President didn’t want to use. The hospitals were made up of one central hub, primarily for operations and extended treatment, and ten satellite units small enough to extract injured men from a warzone.

Both the operating hubs and smaller satellite units were mounted on pontoons made of industrial rubber. The pontoons were inflated by compressed steam, spiralling through support braces and escaping through holes underneath. This kept the surgical units level on uneven terrain. It also provided a low resistance propulsion system.

Hospital hubs moved slowly over large distances. Smaller satellites were more nimble, able to match the dizzying pace of battle. During a live fight, conveyors were attached to the satellites so that large numbers of soldiers could be whisked to the hub from any location.

People in the north were mad with optimism. None dared suggest that the southern rebels posed a big enough threat to justify using steam powered weapons. They were so confident, Union supporters talked about allowing the Confederates to use these mobile hospitals. Soon enough, everyone discovered that having an army and fighting a war were two different things.

While we were dining in Washington, Union and Confederate soldiers waited. Most citizens, disconnected from the reality of the war, thought of the conflict between north and south as something that ranged over wide stretches, from New York to Louisiana and everywhere in between. Maybe it will be at some point.

In those early days, the theatre of war spanned less than a hundred miles. The White House and the Confederate capital at Richmond were protected by armies camped between.

Both sides were eager to attack the enemy capital. Both were anxious to protect their own. They assembled within striking distance of each other but neither knew what to do next.

“You are as familiar with the rebels as any in this room.”

Senator Wilson was behind me. I turned expecting to find him holding court with a group of other statesmen. To my surprise, he was alone.

In the bustle of the event, he stood closer to me than would normally have been acceptable. The crowd was large tonight. There was little room.

A glistening light display suspended from the ballroom ceiling rotated above. Pure white light was flecked with shimmering colors, bathing the dinner tables, bandstand and dance floor. Flecks of shaved crystal fell from the display, catching and reflecting the light. It was like being underwater with diamonds floating all around.

“I am holding an advisors’ meeting tomorrow. Decisions will be made about how to proceed against the Confederacy. I should very much like to discuss their tactics with you.” He said. “Over breakfast, perhaps.”

A knowing grin crept into the corner of his mouth. I looked over his shoulder. Rose Greenhow stood beyond. This was my moment to shatter her.

I looked her in the eye, willing her to remember how she tried to shame me with tainted champagne. Instead, it was me who was forced to remember.

I thought about my ruined career, my worthless reputation. I remembered what Anderson said to me aboard his airship; that deep down I preferred the company of monsters. Most of all, I recalled that I had come to Washington in search of a criminal.

In the process, I stalked a civilian widow. I walked the halls of power and pretended to have business in them. I made it my purpose to bring another woman down. I lost my way.

Senator Wilson wasn’t offering to help me find Major Anderson. I knew what he was offering. It made me feel sick.

“Excuse me.” I said.

I brushed past, hurrying to leave the hall. Others turned to look. Senator Wilson was aghast at the public rebuke.

I didn’t care. I had to get out.

Reaching the bottom of the grand staircase, my eyes were locked on the front door. Again, I heard a voice behind.

“Miss Warne.” Rose said.

We were alone on the stairs. I was at the bottom. She stood halfway up. Without closing the gap, she pressed me for an explanation.

“Why did you do that? The Senator . . .”

I held a hand out to stop her from saying any more. One of my fingers shook.

“It doesn’t matter.” I said. “There’s no reason.”

She looked at me for what seemed a long time. In some ways, it was for the first time.

“You’re quite stunning in that dress.” She said.

Rose walked down the steps and joined me at the bottom. She took my arm in hers. I didn’t resist. We walked to the door.

“So we are not giving reasons for the things we do tonight.” She said. “In that case, there is no reason for me to tell you that General Gustave Beauregard has been assigned to lead the Confederate forces at Manassas. Yankees such as yourself know the area as Bull Run.”

Beauregard was the man Major Anderson vowed to capture after the destruction of Fort Sumter. How did she know my reason for being in Washington?

Naturally, she had traded one secret for another. I wondered how much it cost her to buy the truth. Who sold it to her?

Maybe it was Harry. I would never know for sure.

Rose helped me with my coat. She hailed a carriage from the executive stable.

“One of our hospital prototypes is travelling to Manassas.” She said. “Perhaps you would like to be part of its humanitarian mission to the south.”

*   *   *

Repository Note:

Here is an instance where the Pinkerton account does map onto the historic record. Rose Greenhow was a prominent figure in Washington circles during that period. Rumours of a romance with Senator Wilson, and its consequences during the opening stages of the war, appear in many source materials. For people who want to discredit and ignore the Pinkerton dossier, this creates a problem. At least some of the account is true. After winning a diplomatic row to reclaim this portfolio in 1956 then spending over fifty years sifting through the files, we cannot just sweep it under the carpet now that real discoveries are being made. I want to uncover as much material as possible before Justice shuts us down again.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

July, 1861

This police wagon was different from the last. Between my first arrest for trespassing and my most recent arrest for kidnapping, my status had changed. I was no longer a petty nuisance. I was a dangerous offender. The wagon reflected this switch.

The big difference was size. This wagon was more spacious, which struck me as a bit ironic. I could stretch my legs. Three armed guards traveled with me, which was also new.

Chains bound my arms and legs to an iron ring bolted into the floor. This compounded the pain caused by both a ferocious beating at the hands of Norwalk police and William Hunt’s knife attack.

My equipment was in a bin underneath the bench. When I was taken into custody, officers dismantled the chassis from my arms and torso to keep as evidence. They didn’t check under my slacks.

I still had the winch. This was my glimmer of hope.

The piston I primed at Waring farm was still full of steam. I was counting on there being enough power left in it to lift the ring out of the floor. If so, I would have a few seconds to act before the guards got to me.

I had one more idea about getting to the bottom of Judge Terrence Mansfield’s blackmail, the Schulte murder, maybe everything. I wanted a final stab at piecing it all together. If I could get my hands on those tools before the guards knocked me senseless, I might be able to get out.

The severity of my injuries allowed me to spend a lot of time hunched over. I let out an occasional moan. The guards ignored me. None noticed me grind the carbide tip of the jackleg winch into a seam between planks under the ring.

I clutched at my chest with both hands as though experiencing some new agony. Standing up, I pressed all my weight down on the bit.

“Quiet there.” One guard said. “Sit down.”

The other two reached for clubs. Trying to look intimidated, I sat in a heap and leaned to one side for leverage. The wood cracked. I held my breath, pleading in my mind for the ring to come loose.

A booming noise stung the inside of my ear canal. The seam between planks yawned open. A fissure ran up the wall to the ceiling causing the whole wagon split in half.

The guards looked terrified. They were still gripping their clubs.

My half of the wagon fell away. The wall I leaned against crashed onto the street, carrying all the carriage’s momentum. My arms and legs came free from the shackles. I skimmed along the roadway, sitting bolt upright and screaming from the pit of my stomach like a newborn.

The wheels of nearby coaches spun close. Passengers on all sides yelled and pointed. I approached a bend in the road. A carriage was bearing down behind.

I threw myself forward and grabbed the box holding my gear. I jumped off the wall and landed on the crate. My face swung down and smacked the side. I rolled head over heels into the tables of a curb-side cafe.

I got to my feet. The act of trying to brush myself off raised a few guffaws. Mostly, I just smeared dirt and blood together on my clothes.

It would take police an hour to get word of the accident, talk to witnesses and make any progress in searching for me. That was ample time for me to reach the Stock Exchange where I would make my last attempt and finding the truth.

New York’s first Exchange on Wall Street was destroyed by fire so the outfit moved to a temporary space on Broad. There were plans in the works for a lavish new structure but the current building only stood out because so many people streamed through its doors all day long.

Inside, the Exchange was no more glamorous than a warehouse. Every adornment was stripped away to make room for the men crammed inside and the machines tracking daily action.

Tradable commodities in America each had a code. These codes were posted on a board made up of shutters the size of playing cards, which flipped over as prices fluctuated. The dense grid of numbers and codes was constantly changing. The board dominated every sightline. It was so vast, all four walls were covered, starting halfway up and reaching to the ceiling.

A cube in the middle of the trading floor was twenty feet in every dimension. Electric leads hung from the cube like hair. Those leads connected to a device inside that counted prices and returns for every product in the Union economy.

This was what I needed. I forced my way to the cube.

I had retrieved my switchbox, among other equipment, from the wreck. When I plugged it into leads on the cube, it flared in my hand. The volume of information would be similar to the telegraphs I intercepted on the Golden Circle case. My machine could handle the data.

I wanted to know if information stolen from Henry Schulte had been entered into the Exchange. One of the silent investors in Schulte’s slave hunting business was New York judge Terrence Mansfield. He presided over my trial and, more importantly, a legal challenge against President Lincoln’s blockade.

The raw data in Schulte’s account log could expose Judge Mansfield as a slave profiteer. That was why Hunt wanted it. He was trying to shape the power of the President.

Judge Mansfield already rendered his decision. He supported the President’s blockade. If his blackmailers made good on their threat, they would leave a trace here.

Traders nudged each other and pointed at me as punch cards fell from the switchbox. I shrugged as though I didn’t know what it was doing either. A floor monitor approached. He took one look at the cards accumulating at my feet and gestured for security.

The switchbox went still in my hands. A card emerged under the heading: Returns—T. Mansfield.

It was confirmed. The judge was exposed.

The damning information was entered earlier that same day from a remote location here in New York: the offices of Northern Central railway. That was the same company I was investigating for embezzlement when Kennedy arrested me.

I detached the switchbox. It was no great feat to disappear on the Stock Exchange floor. The price of coffee rose a quarter penny and, in the commotion, I was gone.

The route to Northern Central was no trouble to recall. I had been there many times.

There was no chance of getting past reception so I circled to the back. Offices were on the first two floors. Conference rooms and executive suites were on the third. The fourth was empty. I held the dragline caster and looked at the fourth floor windows.

It was a long way up but this was my best chance of getting into the building. Whoever sent the Schulte data to the Stock Exchange might still have been inside.

I wound up a few times then launched the sinker, hoping it would snag a fire escape. It smashed through a window.

I hurried to attach the dragline to the fastener on my knee. When the filament wire retracted, I tipped upside down and rose through the air. My feet took the window frame apart as I crashed into the room. I was still rising.

The caster was lodged in the beams behind a light fixture on the ceiling. I twisted my knees coming to a sudden stop, dangling above the floor. From there, I heard two men approach.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Be quiet.”

I knew those voices.

“The equipment is bought. It will be delivered on schedule. I’m done.”

The door opened. S. M. Felton and Superintendent John Kennedy walked in. They traced the damage from the window to the broken glass on the floor and finally to the light fixture. Kennedy’s jaw dropped.

“This is what I’m talking about.” Felton said. “We are never going to be rid of them.”

“If you had done your job, this would not be an issue.”

“I tossed one out of an airship. I sent this one to face a thousand telegraph machines.”

“Too clever by half, Felton. That’s always been your way.”

Kennedy circled beneath me. A smile spread over his face and he clapped his hands.

“Robert.” He said. “Let us show Mr. Felton what he ought to have done.”

Kennedy drew his pistol. He spent a moment taking careful aim then fired.

I raised my hands in front of my face. The ball passed between my fingers, skimmed off my check bone, and ripped through my right leg. It clattered into the dragline device.

I cried out. Kennedy cheered. The impact caused the device to jam, straining as it tried to retract the filament wire.

“We wanted the Pinkertons to be out of our way.” Kennedy said. “How hard was that?”

“Hunt makes it hard. He has to kill Lincoln himself. He only presses a judge over slave issues. He only steals from abolitionist towns. I’m surprised he accepted news of the Union attack from a woman.”

“Settle down.” Kennedy said. “It’s over now.”

I felt a burning heat near my knee, and then a shudder as the dragline pulled the filament free. It severed a wooden rafter from the ceiling and cut the screws holding the chandelier.

I fell, absorbing the impact in the shoulder to spare my leg. The rest landed on Kennedy.

My body throbbed all over. Kennedy was hurt but not seriously. He started pushing debris aside. The thought of him back on his feet was an outrage.

I lurched to a sitting position like a mummy rising from the crypt. Kennedy cast me a disbelieving glance. I hit his face, chest, arms. I even punched the floor. It was a wild flurry, completely out of control. When it was over, Kennedy stayed down.

Felton was paralyzed in horror. I must have been a ghastly sight.

I aimed the dragline at his chest. The device was ruined but he didn’t know.

“Northern Central has a dirigible.” I said. “You can fly it.”

“You need to go to a hospital, Robert.”

I didn’t feel all that bad. The fear of how much something might hurt was worse than the actual pain.

“No.” I said. “Let’s go have a look at that equipment you purchased.”

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

July, 1861

The town of Helena, in the Montana territory, was as far removed from the health and liveliness of Geneva as I could imagine. There were no businesses to anchor the community, no schools for the children. If there was a theatre, it was sure to be burlesque.

Of all the blights in Helena, the worst was the sight of mud spattered slaves tromping through their miserable lives. My thoughts turned to Ray. I could not let him disappear into this backwards world again.

I told myself to focus on the plan. That was the best way to help Ray.

After the bank robbery, Newton Edwards shipped a crate from Geneva to a woman named Norma Ellis in Helena. I checked the church registry. Ellis was her married name. She was born Norma Edwards, Newton’s sister.

Sticking to the plan, I visited to the local courier and paid to use his telegraph machine. I said that I had several messages to send, and expected to receive replies to them all. I would be spending a lot of time in their office over the coming days.

Prior to arriving in Helena, counterfeiters charged me a thousand dollars to prepare a set of documents. Some were intended for Norma Ellis. The rest were to help me rescue Ray.

If William Hunt tried to go south with Ray, he would need to prove his ownership. Otherwise, police down there could accuse him of trafficking in free men from the north and take Ray away. Not that Ray would be freed under those circumstances. He would be resold to a new owner. Hunt, however, would end up with nothing.

Knowing this, I had the tattoo faces create a set of false papers declaring me to be Ray’s owner just like before. They also drafted a legal petition claiming that my slave had been stolen and threatening to sue any trader that profited from my property.

I used the Helena courier to telegraph these petitions to every major slave auction house in the south. It was the sort of claim southerners took seriously. If Hunt tried to reintegrate Ray into the society of slaves, I stood a decent chance of finding out where they were.

My first few days in Helena were spent at the telegraph machine. I lost track of how many I sent. Every few hours, I asked to look through my old messages and read every new transmission received by their office.

This was part of the ruse. Being an annoyance made it excusable, even expected, when I ventured into secure areas of the courier depot that were supposed to be off limits.

I saw that the express delivery from Geneva was still unclaimed. It had to be the money. I was sure of it. Newton Edwards would have wanted to get the loot away as fast as possible.

He trusted his sister enough to have her hold the cash. Living in Helena, she was desperate enough to agree. What tripped them up was the need for her to sign for stolen goods.

The fastest way for me to get back on Newton Edwards’ trail was to force Norma to do whatever her brother originally asked. She knew where Newton was and would lead me right to him but, first, she had to accept the delivery.

This was the sort of moment that made it half tolerable to be a Pinkerton. It was easier to lie when it was for the Agency.

I visited Mrs. Ellis. The house was so run down that the knocker almost fell off in my hand. Norma answered. Her finger nails were black with dirt, though I could see no signs of a garden on the property. This was a life spent in true squalor.

Time spent at the courier depot showed me how to dress like one of its staffers. I handed her a notice advising that, if she did not claim the Geneva delivery within 24 hours, the crate would be confiscated. It never occurred to her that it was all fake.

To make the swindle cut deeper, I made sure that another paper found its way into her hands. It was little more than a scrap. All it showed was the watermark of New Orleans Police and a subject header with Newton Edwards’ name. The counterfeiters had lifted it from the missing person notice. Norma Ellis would assume the law was closing in.

She reacted the way I hoped. The next morning, she rushed to the courier office and sent a telegram, emphasizing to the teller that it was an emergency.

I was there, like always, surrounded by a mountain of paper. Responses to my petition had been flowing in for days. When the reply to Norma Ellis’ telegraph arrived, I was reading through incoming messages. I saw what I needed:

Northern Central # 47-A–21. Forward package. Thomas Duncan. Manassas, Virginia.

There were two men at the Geneva robbery. Newton Edwards was one. Thomas Duncan must have been the other. They fled to the trains after the heist. That was smart.

I needed to get back on the rail network in a hurry if I hoped to intercept Edwards and Duncan on their way to Virginia. I swept the telegraph messages aside and called for the clerk to issue me a bill. I paid my tab and left.

In my rush, I almost forgot to bring the one transmission that mattered out of all the pointless telegraphs I sent and received. It arrived the previous day:

Sir—Thank you for contacting us. Your property is on record at our auction house. Please speak to our legal department to pursue your petition.

-Heritage Estate Brokerage—Shreveport, Louisiana

Ray was in Louisiana. Edwards and Duncan were going to Virginia.

I mulled this over a glass of moonshine in a dingy saloon on a train connecting with the Northern Central line. I had no trouble locating 47-A–21 but found it impossible to justify pursuing these men any further.

I had no real allegiance to William or the Pinkerton brood. Let them try to send me back to Ryker’s Island. If I didn’t reach Ray soon, I never would.

A pair of counterfeiters approached. I had spent so much money that now they came looking for me now. They were everywhere.

I had asked these two to find out which car Edwards and Duncan rented on the train to Virginia. I also ordered a draft legal document that I could send to Shreveport demanding to know the whereabouts of my slave.

“Two thousand.” One of the dealers said.

It was more than any of the others charged. I had seven hundred dollars left.

“Be reasonable.” I said.

The second man tapped his partner’s shoulder. I could never tell which of these traders I had dealt with face to face. The effect of the tattoos was so confusing. I felt like maybe I had seen him before. The one in charge dismissed him with a wave.

“Two thousand.” He said.

“Take the seven hundred.” I insisted.

Our negotiation ended. They turned without another word.

I leapt from my chair and grabbed the one who set the price. The second twisted my arm and pressed me back down on the table. There was nothing to be gained by fighting with them. I was on my own again.

The saloon operator asked me to leave. Other customers thought I might be police. He didn’t want any trouble.

I reached into my pocket for money to pay for my drink. I found the stub of a train ticket that did not belong to me. Train 47-A–21, Cabin D–4.

I did know that man. He helped set Ray free on the trip to Philadelphia.

I was closing in on Edwards and Duncan but no nearer to pulling Ray out of the south. If I went to Shreveport, I could find him. If I went right away, there might be time.

We connected with Northern Central. A porter led me to the car marked on my stub. The hall was packed with people. They crowded around an open cabin door: D–4.

I shoved past the jostling mass and stepped into the room. A man was on the floor, his back against the wall. The front of his shirt was stained with blood from a gunshot.

“You must be Newton Edwards.” I said.

“Are you a doctor?” The man asked.

“No. I’m a Pinkerton.”

“Oh God.” The man looked like he had just accepted he was going to die. In desperation, he stammered on. “You have to help me. Okay? It was a con. Duncan never wanted the money. Look out the window. He paid for some sort of machine.”

Up ahead, in a section reserved for factories and heavy industry, I saw a man hang over the side of the train to inspect straps that held a massive vehicle in place. It looked like many machines rolled into one.

I assumed that man was Thomas Duncan. He looked back at the window. It was one of the baseball players from the Golden Circle.

“What did you get yourself into, Edwards?”

“I wanted a new start. That’s all. I trusted Duncan.” He said. “Help me.”

Every second I spent with this man was a second I stole from Ray. William sent me to find Newton Edwards. Here he was. Whatever connection existed between the Geneva robbery and the Golden Circle, I didn’t care. I took a piece of paper from the desk and wrote a note:

Newton Edwards. Shot dead by Thomas Duncan. Geneva bank robbery. Accomplices at large.

-Ernie Stark, Pinkerton Detective Agency

I slid it into Edwards’ jacket. His legs shook and he complained of feeling cold. I left to find a train for Louisiana.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

July, 1861

Felton guided the airship down the coast. Winds off the Atlantic jostled us as we descended toward Virginia.

“You were right.” Felton said.

I pulled a face plate off the pilot console to examine the controls behind. There wasn’t anything complicated about keeping the dirigible afloat.

“What was I right about?”

“The war won’t end until the north shares its technology.”

I made that comment at a meeting in Philadelphia. Papa and I visited Felton’s office with Kate Warne to discuss the threat of sabotage against PWB railway. Felton was already in league with Kennedy at that point.

They embezzled funds for rebels in the south. They tried to have the President killed. Timothy Webster died. Kate was assaulted. I lost Stark at Ryker’s Island. Ray was captured by William Hunt. It was all because of them.

“Just keep heading south.” I said.

I was reluctant to attach my switchbox to the controls. There was no question that it could maintain the airship’s speed and altitude but, after I left, the ship would crash.

That was why I hesitated. I didn’t want to lose the switchbox.

“My engineers stamped a plate into the switches before lending it to your father. I couldn’t bear to destroy it.” Felton said.

“I don’t want to destroy it either.”

“Then let me turn this ship around, Robert. You don’t know what’s about to happen.”

I showed him the mining explosives and detonator.

“Your little conspiracy is about to go up in smoke.”

Felton trembled. He was caught between laughing and yelling.

“You have to listen. The Union is planning a surprise attack but we have a person in Washington. Do you understand? We know they are coming. That bomb is nothing. The trench cutter will lay waste to an entire army. Look at yourself. We must go back.”

I could barely stand on my septic leg. The pistol wound had stopped bleeding, which was good, but I was weak. I was fairly sure I could poke a finger through the gash my neck.

It was a mess. I hated the thought of Felton being right.

The switchbox was in place. I pushed Felton away from the controls. The airship dipped at first, then corrected its bearing and continued on course.

“You can leave now.”

With the dragline pointed at his back, I forced him down to the belly of the ship. I handed him a parachute and opened the drop portal. He pressed into the straps, took a last look back at me and jumped.

I didn’t see whether he landed safely. It made no difference.

In the fields below, the Union army marched toward Bull Run. They were headed into a trap. President Lincoln did not want to use modern weapons against the south. His enemies had no such reluctance. Whatever nightmare Felton, Kennedy and William Hunt dreamed up, fifty thousand of Union soldiers were about to face it unaware.

Felton was right. There was little chance of me stopping his machine with one pack of explosives. I might do enough damage for the Union army to survive, though. I could win them time to regroup. There was value in that.

I brought the airship down low. The switchbox held us steady. I saw the trench cutter in the distance and was struck by its power, by the ingenuity of the thing.

I climbed into the parachute. Feeling guilty, more than I ever had lying to my father, I watched the switchbox undulate on the pilot seat. I jumped from the portal into a battlefield.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

July, 1861

When Robert fell from the dirigible, I thought I was hallucinating. Trapped between two advancing armies, helpless in a pontoon hospital with no weapons, I could not imagine the situation getting worse. Robert always showed me something new.

What a sentimental moron I had been, trusting Rose Greenhow. She called this a humanitarian mission. It was going to be a massacre.

The Union army set its sights on Richmond. President Lincoln and his advisors planned a sneak attack to cut the heart out of the Confederate cause. General McDowell committed a huge force to the attack, sending fifty thousand men. It was more than double the rebel contingent.

To repel the assault, General Beauregard assembled rebel forces in front of a railway junction at Manassas. Three rail companies were served by the interchange. Major southern cities would be cut off from the rest of the country if Union forces shut it down.

Beauregard’s position also allowed him to block the most direct routes through Manassas toward Richmond. Union troops had to cross rolling terrain, which would slow their advance and expose them to the heavy gun. If they pressed through that bombardment, the Union force would then traverse a river before engaging rebels on the other side. Beauregard was well placed.

Despite these advantages, the size of the Union force should have been enough to guarantee victory. Soldiers had no reason to doubt the certainty of their success as they advanced toward the river.

I had a view of the terrain from inside the hospital hub, which idled in a flatland on the Confederate side of the river. Boosters from Washington made good on their promise to recommend the mobile hospital to both armies. We were well behind rebel lines when the Union charge began.

I watched the Confederates manoeuvre their machine into position. This much was certain: the Union army was going to be wiped out.

Echoes of cannon fire rolled across Bull Run. A ferryboat sailor who volunteered to pilot the hospital hub on its maiden voyage panicked.

He cranked the throttle and pressed too much steam through the pontoons holding us in place. This mistake was aggravated when he tried to turn our vessel around by extending the wing flaps before we started moving.

The hospital jumped off the ground, titled to one side and spun into a cluster of trees. Men and women from the Greenhow fundraiser screamed and held onto each other. I rushed to the loading bay and jumped out to see if there was some way to get us moving again.

From ground level, I noticed that the Confederate machine was hidden from Union view behind a ridge between rail platforms leading to the Manassas interchange. The ridge sloped down in the direction of the river and the advancing army.

Blades of a wind turbine at the heart of the machine were so broad they could have doubled as sails on a schooner. At first, these blades fanned out like petals but when the weapon was put to use, their tips lifted to form a cone. Four steam engines powered the blades. Ten iron cross pieces were welded into the foundation of the rail platforms to hold the thing in place.

The blades started to spin. The cone pulled back from the ridge as its narrow front end pointed down at a sharp angle. It looked like the weapon was taking aim at the earth.

The engines shook. Support pieces rattled against the train platforms. The blades gained incredible speed. Finally, out of the tip of the cone, a vortex of twisted air emerged.

It warbled, holding its shape like a silken cocoon. As the vortex grew it became easier for the weapon’s operators to control. The dervish of steam and air held steady for a moment over the ridge then plunged into the ground.

Dirt and rocks belched out the back end of the turbine. The machine was tunnelling under Bull Run.

Confederate troops waited. The vortex widened. The hole was large enough for soldiers to march through, two by two. They disappear under the ridge.

Union forces far in the distance tried to flank Confederate positions. They did not see the trenches manifest, as if out of thin air, in the plains ahead of their advance. Those trenches soon filled with rebel troops, marching underground, ready to ambush their attackers.

The machine was safe behind the ridge. Its operators countered every Union move. There was nowhere for the northern troops to turn. Fresh trenches, bursting with enemy infantry, blocked every route.

The scene was alarming enough. The sight of Robert falling out of his dirigible, coasting down to the turbine machine in a parachute, was almost beyond belief.

Robert collapsed onto the ground near one of the support beams. My view was obscured by trees and distance but he looked injured.

Rebel troops surrounded him. They opted not to shoot him at first because he wasn’t a Union soldier. They didn’t seem to know what to do with him.

Their indecision would not last. Eventually, they would just kill him and be done with it.

I ran to one of the hospital’s satellite ships. The iron weave conveyor connecting this craft to the larger hub would surely be long enough for me to reach Robert.

The controls inside were no more sophisticated than a railway interceptor. Pontoon supports inflated in seconds. I eased the throttle down. Thin jets of steam lifted the satellite off the ground and pushed it forward.

As I picked up speed, I raised the wing flaps. The vehicle’s front end tipped down. I pressed the throttle to its limit. The satellite streaked toward Manassas junction.

Like with Robert, the soldiers didn’t know what to do with me. So far as they knew, the satellite was part of a hospital. They weren’t supposed to shoot at hospitals.

I circled behind the rail platform for cover and brought the satellite down. Thinking I was a doctor, the troops back away and allowed me to approach.

Robert was almost dead. He had lost a lot of blood and was barely breathing. He held a detonator in his hand and an explosive charge was attached to a piston on his leg. What on earth was he doing? I tossed the equipment aside and called to one of the rebels.

“Help me with him.”

In the confusion, he did as I asked. I strapped Robert to a gurney, tried to ignore the extreme injuries all over his body and prepared to leave.

Bombs started falling from the sky. The shock of the first explosion woke Robert from his stupor. He looked out the satellite’s wind screen, wincing in pain as he craned his neck.

We looked at each other. He did not seem shocked to see me.

“Did I detonate that?”

“No.” I said. “It has to be Anderson.”

High above the battleground, an airship approached. I knew it on sight, even from a long way off. It was the bomber from rogue commander Robert Anderson’s stolen flagship, the USS Cumberland. The bomber was attacking the Confederate machine.

At Chesapeake Bay, Anderson vowed to show all of America that steam weapons would inevitably enter the war. Anderson believed he was doing what the President would not; fighting with the best weapons available.

Heavy ordinance fell near the machine but failed to deliver a critical strike. My satellite vehicle slid backward. The conveyor was pulled taut. The hospital hub cleared the tree line and was moving away from Manassas, dragging us on its tether.

One of the weapon’s engines broke apart and the vortex jerked out of alignment when the next bomb hit. Anderson’s crew had dropped its altitude and was now hitting the mark. Confederate soldiers charging to fill the trenches were buried alive.

The satellite pressed against the rail platform. If I let Anderson’s men finish their raid, the Union army might win this battle. All I had to do was let the hospital hub pull me clear.

I tried to rationalize letting Anderson flatten the Confederate machine. He could be tried for the atrocity at Chesapeake Bay after the fight here was over.

By that time, he would be the hero of Bull Run. Newspapers would make him a god. Did I believe that President Lincoln had the courage to prosecute a man many would call the saviour of his Union? What might Harry Vinton advise him to do?

I filled the pontoons with steam and lifted the satellite off the ground. As the hospital hub moved further away, the iron weave conveyor pulled harder on the ship’s back end. I pressed the throttle down, little by little, to compensate and hold us steady.

The satellite shook. Its steel frame groaned under a pressure it had never been subjected to before. Controls rattled in my hand.

“Kate, what are you doing?” Robert said.

“Just hold on.”

“Hold on to what?”

I cut the power and let all the steam burst out at once. The satellite shot straight up. With the resistance gone, tension on the tether released and whipped our vehicle like a sling.

I put all my weight on the lever to hold the wing flaps down. We rose with so much speed that I could not say for certain whether I had the ship under control.

The Cumberland bomber came into view. I fought the flaps, trying to line us up with the bomber’s broadside undercarriage. When our trajectory was as close to dead on as I could manage, I locked the wings in place and threw myself onto the gurney with Robert.

The back hatch opened and we slid out on the conveyor. We rode the tether, upside down, from over a hundred feet in the air.

The sight of thousands of men killing each other on the ground rose toward us. I had no appetite for that scene so I turned to watch the satellite finish its arc.

I knew it what it would mean for Union soldiers. Many more would die because Anderson’s bomber was knocked out of the fight. Some of those deaths, maybe all of them, would be my fault.

Nevertheless, I felt such happiness when the satellite smashed into the bomber. Flaming pieces of the airship lit the sky.

I found a crank on the side of the gurney and wound it with all my strength. The grinding noise was deafening. Sparks flew into my mouth. We slowed down.

The tether went slack as we hit bottom. The satellite’s smouldering hull landed at a safe distance. I pounded on a door at the hospital hub’s loading dock. One of the aristocrats let us in. The ferryboat driver saved them.

Robert was lifted onto a triage table where nurses started the long process of putting his body back together. I wanted to stay but the wreck of Cumberland’s bomber was nearby. I had to know whether Anderson was on board.

I stepped toward the dock. Robert called to me from triage.

“How was Washington?”

I laughed. What a thing to say.

“Fine, thanks. Did you ever find out who killed that old man?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Your father will be happy.”

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

August, 1861

The Union suffered a humiliating defeat at Bull Run. General Beauregard was hailed as the first hero of the Confederacy and, for the first time, talk throughout the nation turned to the question of whether the south might win this war. I was not happy.

Robert was alive, though. My reckless, infuriating boy was spared from the carnage in Virginia. For that, I was grateful.

I was also troubled by the files I read. My heart was heavy with concern.

Ernie Stark’s conduct was callous to the point of shocking even me. Kate Warne travelled in Washington circles that had nothing to do with solving crimes. She contributed to the Union defeat by attacking the Cumberland airship. Robert was arrested again. He stood a good chance of being acquitted of kidnapping but he fled police custody and beat Superintendent Kennedy half to death. I did not trust Byron Hayes to prepare an effective defence.

The most disturbing part of all was that Robert had been right. I fought him at every juncture but, in the end, only he saw the whole picture.

John Kennedy tried to destroy our Agency. His aim was to keep us out of the way while he, Felton and William Hunt plotted their mischief against the Union.

The culprit was in front of me the whole time. It was Kennedy.

Where does this leave us? President Lincoln is still waiting for my answer.

With everything that has happened, my decision is easy. There is only one way for me to keep my son out of prison, to keep Kate Warne from being accused of treason, to defuse the scandal of Stark’s behaviour.

I will sweep it away by claiming we acted on behalf of the government. If President Lincoln wants us to make espionage our business, I will allow him to pay us for the service. We have the necessary skill set after all. In time, our clients will find that we are all the more useful for being tied to the most powerful man on earth.

It was comforting to make this choice and put it behind me. I should not have been so severe in judging that naive Dundee cooper who lives in my memory. I might even choose to pay more attention when he speaks up from my past.

That simple man could have helped me through these troubles. He would have reminded me that, in this world, feeling lost is not always the same as losing your way.

“I state my general idea of this war to be that we have the greater numbers, and the enemy has the greater facility of concentrating forces upon points of collision. We will fail unless we can find some way of making our advantage an over-match for his. That can only be done by menacing him with superior forces at different points, at the same time, so that we can safely attack.”

- Abraham Lincoln, January 1862

*   *   *

Repository Note:

I did not solicit the letter from New Carthage. Its arrival has sparked a heated debate among senior managers over whether I should be allowed to visit the offshore Republic to discuss Pinkerton’s materials. The man who contacted me is believed to be the financier who challenged Justice in international court. Why he did so is not clear. I would like to ask him. At the end of the civil war, the betrayal that led to Timothy Webster’s execution and stained the legacy of President Lincoln, also led to the creation of a Republic where slaves could find true freedom. Neither the Confederate territories nor the Union states would partition their land so a floating annex was constructed. A new nation was built on America’s shore, extending a hundred miles into the Atlantic Ocean and spanning from Canada to the Carolinas: New Carthage. The Pinkerton papers were held there until 1956. Their release has created so much controversy. I am eager to travel to New Carthage and find out why.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2010 by David Luchuk. All rights reserved.

Published by Audio Joe Inc.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

FIRST DIGITAL EDITION

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information is available upon request

ISBN 978-0-9867424-2-2

THE PINKERTON FILES, VOLUME 4:

The Sleepwalker and the Spy

David Luchuk

Repository Note:

For 50 years, the Library of Congress has tried to make sense of records buried in the archives of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. It’s been a chore. Since taking over, I’ve reminded my team many times that answers are hidden in the mess. We would be the ones to find them. Against the wishes of our own Justice Department, we’ve released thousands of documents to the public. There have been startling discoveries along the way:

Agency founder Allan Pinkerton claimed that, during the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln refused to use steam weapons against Confederates. That would shock most Americans if it turned out to be true. Pinkerton took credit for saving Lincoln from an assassination attempt spearheaded by outlaw William Hunt. Accounts from the era cite New York Police Superintendent John Kennedy as hero of that affair. The rift between Pinkerton’s papers and the historic record goes deeper. He claimed that Major Robert Anderson was a break-away mutineer intent on using advanced Union munitions to destroy the Confederacy. Strangest of all, the Pinkerton files suggest that Timothy Webster, executed as a double agent at the end of the war, was in fact a detective who died before the fighting started. Either Allan Pinkerton was a liar, maybe a delusional old man, or the things we think we know about our country’s history are simply wrong.

I was sure this was just the beginning. I guessed that the old detective hid his notes more carefully after war erupted, after his son Robert and the disgraced Kate Warne intervened at Bull Run. Their bungling cost hundreds of lives and handed a crucial victory to southern rebels. Allan Pinkerton receded from public view after that event. His detectives became spies for President Lincoln. I expected to find more but the secret cache of case files never resurfaced. After so much hard work, we were getting nowhere.

That was when I received the invitation, practically on cue. It was more than a simple invitation, of course. A diplomatic travel visa was authorized. Security screens were pre-approved. My travel was even booked. There was no mystery as to who opened this door for me: surely the same man who spent a small fortune taking the Justice Department to court, blocking their attempt to shut down our Pinkerton project. Years later, just as we gave up looking for case files in the Pinkerton archive, he invited me to New Carthage.

The republic is a truly foreign place. I knew the same basics as everyone else. It is an artificial land mass, built on iron plates and foundations that reach down to the ocean floor. It extends almost 300 miles into the Atlantic and now runs the east coast of the United States, top to bottom. It was constructed as a temporary colony for the relocation of slaves after the Civil War. But it became a great deal more. The metal island, tiny and isolated in unfriendly open water, expanded to become a country unto itself.

Technologies that have been illegal for a century or more in America have flourished and evolved in New Carthage. Nowhere was this more striking to me than in the mechanized library where I met my host. Met is the wrong word. We never stood face to face. I only heard his voice, following me through the library, always quietly by my side, broadcast on a chain of speakers in the tables, the floors, the walls, the bookshelves. He was right next to me yet nowhere to be seen. Amid rotating stacks of books, folders, loose papers, drawings and artwork of all sorts, he guided me to sound recordings made by the Pinkertons. I was skeptical. After a short time, though, I recognized the agents. I knew them well enough. The audio was authentic. It picked up where our files ended.

Because I travelled on a diplomatic visa, on behalf of the government, I was required by law to include these items in our Pinkerton collection. I knew they would cause trouble once released. How could they not? The first entry is undated. I can’t say where it fits in the rest of the sequence. The others map onto a rough timeline that centers on Allan Pinkerton in New York during the great fire. What was he doing there?

An angry public debate is gathering force. No one wants to revisit that painful moment from our past. With every new release from the Pinkerton archive, the tone of this debate gets darker, more threatening. Maybe we aren’t ready to hear the things Allan Pinkerton has to tell us. Maybe this is what my host in New Carthage intended all along.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Corporal, we have reached the end. Bring the light forward. There is a hatch on this wall. It will take us to the lead transport. Bring the candle.

Corporal! You bloody stupid man. Is there not enough at stake? What good is a soldier if he can’t even be counted on to help break things?

There. I am through. It is even darker up here. Corporal, follow my voice. Are you still behind me?

Mercy, I hear them. They are coming.

I am installing the transmitter. There is so little time.

Can anyone hear me? This is Kate Warne. Acknowledge. I am transmitting from the Potomac canal. We are en route to Washington. You must destroy these vessels. Acknowledge, damn you!

I am Kate Warne. Whoever is listening: destroy these vessels!

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

December, 1861

New York City glows beneath me. I am standing in a weapons laboratory aboard the airship Protocol. From this vantage, I see currents of fire swallowing the streets. Rebels mounted turbine furnaces in matched pairs throughout the city to blast sheer walls of pressurized and oxygen-rich air into the Manhattan grid. The blaze is out of control.

We do not know where the turbines are located. Dr. Thaddeus Lowe is trying to deduce their positions. My son, Robert, is presumably trying to help. I hope he is not hindering Dr. Lowe’s progress.

Rebels ignited the turbines without warning. They gave civilians no chance to escape. Once the first spark was struck, fire swept into the streets. Temperatures are so extreme that buildings not only burn, they melt.

My view from the laboratory window is shifting now. Navigators are moving the Protocol further away. This heat is a danger to the airship, I imagine, even from a distant position over the river.

Dr. Lowe created the Protocol as a test facility, a proving ground for new innovations. When businesses in the Union north need a piece of equipment that cannot be purchased, or which does not exist, Dr. Lowe invents it for them on this vessel.

The main body of the Protocol is comprised of nine round modules. Each is a dirigible in itself, big enough to occupy an entire hangar. They are bound to each other in a web of cables as thick as sewer pipes. The modules hold together in flight by orbiting around one another in a shifting and counterbalancing array. Pulleys at the center of each module extend and contract the cables. Every module uses tension created by the others to sustain its own momentum.

Dr. Lowe devised the array and set it in motion not knowing whether it could sustain flight. Since he could not say whether it would fly, he never stopped to ask how it might land. At present, that remains an open question. Dr. Lowe has kept the Protocol afloat and lived on board ever since.

An exterior housing was initially designed and mounted to protect the whirling modules. With no way of landing, however, Dr. Lowe has never been able to complete the installation. The result looks like fingers of a hand reaching out to grab, without quite capturing, nine massive modules from behind.

The Protocol is the only facility of its kind. Scientists and craftsmen live with their families on board. They peddle in radical ideas but, for all their creativity, neither Dr. Lowe nor anyone on his team can imagine a way to slow down the inferno below.

How did it come to this? Is it possible that my one act of betrayal, a single unremarkable lie, lead to the burning of New York City?

Confound it! The sound of my own voice in this contraption is ridiculous. What I would give to have my proper case files. I might make sense of these events. It is a curse to rely on Robert’s damned audio device.

We cannot trust machines. They never face consequences. A machine has a function. It may be reliable, or it may fail, but it cannot betray. That is what makes us human. We can breach a trust and we must face consequences. I fear Robert may never understand this, even if I swing by the neck for what I am about to do.

The message from Major Robert Anderson is in my hand. I will read it aloud by the light of New York on fire then I will destroy it. The note is unsigned. Its origins are impossible to verify. I could invent a hundred stories to explain how I came to possess it. I do not invent stories. That is not the legacy I will pass on to my sons. This is for them. If the worst comes to pass, let it be known that the note reads:

Warn Lincoln: it is a trap. Move the Army north. Commit every resource to New York.

The paper flares in a gas burner, turns to black ash and cools brittle in the air. I was a fool. I thought we were ready to be spies. We did not know the first thing.

Major Anderson knew what was coming. He arranged for that note to be placed in my hand, tasked me with helping the President prevent a catastrophe. Now the note is destroyed and the city of New York is ablaze.

Does that make me a traitor? It makes no difference.

Madness. I have lived to see a day when being a traitor or not is beside the point.

Only one month has passed since this all began, since I stupidly believed we were ready for the business of war. How can so much have happened in such a thin splinter of time? One month ago, I was standing in the White House, preparing to lie to the President during my first official function as a Union spy. Lincoln introduced me to a kind of inner circle; the sort of men who knew about cold brutality. Among that group was Lafayette Baker, Lincoln’s Chief of Domestic Security.

Baker is aboard the Protocol with me. As soon as we reached New York City, he seized Superintendent John Kennedy based on my account of his role in the Golden Circle case. Baker is holding him as a prisoner and a suspect in the outbreak of this fire.

Superintendent Kennedy is well known to me. He arrested my son and conspired with William Hunt to kill President Lincoln in order to bring down the government. It is a travesty that Kennedy remains a respected public figure. The policemen’s union and a legion of New York lawyers blocked every attempt to bring charges against him.

Lafayette Baker is not impressed by unions or lawyers. The rule of law is an annoyance to him. Prior to the war, Baker was an army truant officer. All he possessed was narrow mindedness. Never has a soldier, leaving his post to tend to a dying relative, received less pity. War has a way of making zealots seem like achievers. His lack of empathy made him an asset. The President handpicked him to spy on other northerners.

Despite his elevated station, Lafayette Baker still looks like a highwayman. He wears his rusty hair in a matted crop. Every strand is cut the same length, even on his beard. Baker has eyes like a blind man. They do not focus. He watches the world in peripheral vision. Behind that gaze, he seems utterly absent.

Finding John Kennedy was no great achievement. Where else would the Superintendent be in a time of crisis? He was at police headquarters. Still, Baker bounced on his heels when he brought Kennedy aboard the Protocol. You would have thought he unmasked the Count of Monte Cristo. His body jittered with excitement. His eyes registered no emotion.

Baker took the prisoner to a lecture hall. I watched with mounting alarm as he went about his work. Guards strapped Kennedy to a chair. At the far end of the hall, the carcass of a hog was propped in a matching seat.

Baker told me he tried variations of this technique with live hogs. He found that dead ones worked better. He believed the struggle of a living animal elicited more pity than fear. A carcass was more impactful. The hog’s snout was turned up, as though sniffing. Baker fed a hose into its windpipe. He strapped a leather mask over its mouth and nose. The airway was sealed.

We sat in silence. It was impossible to take our eyes off the hog.

Baker signalled to the operator of a steam chamber out of view. The hog jerked. Its little arms quivered. Its chest and belly filled with air. I thought the beast might float away. The hog shook so hard that the chair rattled then its carcass came to pieces with a dull pop. Slabs of bloodless meat thumped against the wall. Legs and haunches remained in the chair. The nub of its spine poked up.

John Kennedy understood the meaning behind this display. He could be tortured by degrees. It was a simple matter of adjusting pressure in the steam chamber. He could be made to suffer without pause.

Body parts were cleared away. Baker went so far as to bring the leather mask close enough that Kennedy felt air leaking from the hose. That was as hard as Baker needed to press. Kennedy’s resolve came apart like the quarters of that hog.

Baker asked where the turbines were located. Kennedy did not know. He knew part of the rebel plan but not the details. Rebels no longer trusted him. Witnessing his capitulation to Lafayette Baker, I understood why.

Kennedy wept. He did not realize they meant to burn the city. His wife lived in New York and was pregnant. They were to have a family at last. Her whereabouts were still unknown at the time of his capture. Kennedy told Baker as much as he knew. It amounted to this: rebels would not negotiate. They would not turn off the turbines. The city would be destroyed.

Baker got us no closer to stopping the fire. We knew that whoever started the blaze would not put it out. We might have guessed as much without exploding a pig.

Lafayette Baker is the sort of cretin that finds a perch in wartime. I ought to have seen right away that my operatives were not equipped to collide with men like that. Instead, I thought we could outwit them. I made so many wrong choices.

My first decision was the worst. I should never have sent Kate Warne into the Confederate south.

After she and Robert intervened at Bull Run, Kate Warne was accused of treason. This was an insane over-reach from military lawyers but the accusation stuck in Washington. The charges were a blessing in disguise. Or so I thought. They gave her a reason to flee to rebel territory, and gave me an excuse to send her.

Kate Warne was to be my informant. At the time, we had an open case in Wilmington, Carolina. The plan was simple. She was to pose as an exile fleeing from the Union government, which was true enough. She would contact our client and solve the murder of a man named George Gordon. With her credibility established, Kate would then begin providing me with information from the south.

I had misgivings about the case, of course. Our Agency was contacted about the murder while still dealing with William Hunt and the plot to bring down Lincoln. The timing seemed dubious. I told Kate to be on guard.

There was also a political angle. The murder victim, George Gordon, had campaigned against slavery. The case would surely be more than it appeared at first.

I did not trouble her with stories about the oddball mysticism that remains so prominent among southerners. She did not need me to fill her head with such nonsense.

She left for Wilmington just as I prepared to meet with President Lincoln and his advisors. To no one’s surprise, the President asked me what I would do if Kate Warne were arrested and brought to court on the charge of treason. It was a test.

I lied and told the President that she would have to face justice like any other American. In truth, she was already on her way to Confederate territory.

I thought I had been so clever. Instead, I played straight into the hands of our enemies. I lied to the President and now New York City is burning to the ground. Those two facts are connected even if I cannot see how.

What in the world is happening?

Black smoke outside the laboratory window is swirling. A platform has taken shape, made entirely of steam, like a drawbridge reaching toward the city. An aircraft is emerging from the Protocol. It is flat and round. The hull appears to be made of woven steel. It spins on the platform as though someone threw a dinner plate at the fire.

Robert is inside that flyer. I am sure of it. Some part of me has come to expect this sort of thing from my son.

Dr. Lowe. I know you are listening to me. I am alone in this module but you are listening, aren’t you? Robert gave me this audio device. Surely you make use of similar contraptions throughout the Protocol. Tell me what I am seeing.

Thaddeus!

“Your son had an interesting idea, Allan.”

You guessed the location of the turbines, then?

“No. We have something a bit different in mind.”

Robert is not safe in that flimsy aircraft. If he drifts beyond the platform, he will tip into the fire. Follow him.

“That will not help.”

Follow him, I say! We have to keep the steam platform under him. We can offer cover, at least, until you pull Robert back onto the Protocol. There must be a real gun somewhere in this weapons laboratory.

“Cover him from what? We cannot tell friend from foe down there.”

Just stay behind him, professor. Whoever shoots at us, we’ll shoot back.

*   *   *

Kate Warne, Detective

November, 1861

I crossed into Confederate territory at Knoxville in Tennessee, looking every bit like a desperate outcast on the run. Any semblance of normal train service, such as we are accustomed to seeing in the north, disappeared entirely. Rusted tracks staked into wooden ties communicated more clearly than words that I was in a different sort of America.

From Knoxville, I fell in with a shuffling crowd of refugee families and slavery enthusiasts moving south on foot. We were a pitiful group. Half the men were draftees running scared. Half the women were widows. It would have been faster for me to travel by water but the naval route ran past Chesapeake Bay. That was out of the question.

I am not superstitious. I don’t believe in vengeful spirits from beyond the grave. I just know, in the way a bare knuckler knows not to get up once a fight is lost, that I am not welcome at Chesapeake Bay.

I was there when Major Robert Anderson declared his personal war on all things decent and civilized in the United States. Anderson had been Commander at Fort Sumter where he was cooked alive, seared by a steam explosion set off by Confederate troops. Sumter was destroyed and every soldier inside died. All but Anderson, that is. He survived, flung clear by the blast. His skin was fused into a thick mutilated scab. Whatever dignity and honor the man knew before was also wiped away, erased like the features of his face. His ideas and morals are as mangled as his body.

Anderson put himself above the President, and valued his whims above the lives of every person living on the shores of Chesapeake Bay. The day he launched his private militia, he detonated the engines of every boat in a Union shipyard and turned Chesapeake to rubble. Homes became crypts. Villages became graveyards.

Given the choice between sailing past Chesapeake Bay and ambling amid the cold and shelter-less refuges of this war, I chose to travel by land. That was an easy decision.

Our caravan made slow progress. We had to stop to search for strays who wandered into the dense forest. Sometimes we found them, sometimes not. The group gradually thinned as we pressed further into rebel territory.

We crossed paths with soldiers from both Union and Confederate armies. They marched in lines but had no sense of where they were going. Groups were too small to be full military units. They camped in huddled cliques. Formations crossed without firing. In some cases, they mixed to fill ranks. These were Major Anderson’s new hopefuls. They deserted their posts in the Union and Confederate armies, hoping to join his rogue militia. All over America, soldiers like these were trying to find him.

The troops were of no interest to me. Let them fight or let them desert. It is all the same, so long as this war claims the life of Robert Anderson before it ends.

Our rabble finally stopped, along with hundreds of other refugees, at a line of checkpoints on the Tennessee border. We saw the signal fires from a mile away. Actual fires. These were not gas-flame projectors looming over treetops such as you would find up north. Real wood burned on the forest floor charring the checkpoint stations.

Confederate soldiers pulled the helpless out of their wagons. Old people were pushed down. Chests full of cherished items were thrown open. A low ranking officer, a Corporal, pulled me aside. His face was so cratered he could have passed as a smallpox survivor.

I felt a panic in my gut. Robert’s audio device was hidden inside a box marked with apothecary stamps. If the soldier caught me with Union technology, I might never get to Wilmington to pursue the investigation I was sent to conduct.

I did not bring much in the way of specialized equipment. Other than Robert’s recorder, there were only a few pieces of mining gear.

The clapper is little more than a telescoping baton. With a flick of the wrist, it extends to full length, thick as rolled newspaper. The shell is hollow with a heavy iron rod set inside. When the baton is swung forward, firing pins pull back and then release on impact. The iron rod hammers against the inside of the shell and delivers quite a blow.

I also brought the tent shield. It is an emergency tool to protect underground miners from a ceiling collapse. The shield comes in a pouch clipped onto a belt buckle. When the pin is pulled, thin structural tubes spray out and snap into position forming triangles that link together into a half-dome. A huge amount of weight can be carried on top. When the last pieces snap into place, the user is thrust inside.

These were minor precautions on my part but, if discovered, the tools would ruin everything. I handed over my papers. Agency credentials were plainly visible in the bundle along with my pistol. There was no reason to hide my name or occupation. The idea was to infiltrate the south as myself.

The soldier lifted my apothecary box. He scratched the stamps and saw they were recently applied, surely fake. He turned the box over, listening for the jingle of little bottles. It made no sound but engaged the sound recorder.

“Where to, Miss Detective?”

“To Wilmington. On business.”

“What sort?”

“Murder.”

“Ain’t there enough dead Yankees to keep you busy up north?”

The Corporal wrote a note but never opened the apothecary box. He knew it was contraband but left it alone for reasons I could not explain.

The soldier let me through. Not everyone in our group was so lucky.

From Knoxville, I took a train toward the coast. Trains move so much slower in the south. Coal smoke belches from engines that grind over single tracks. Delays are to be expected. Breakdowns are common. Track widths have not even been standardized. It baffles the mind. Trains from different states, even neighboring towns, cannot travel onto connecting lines. First they are too wide, then too narrow.

Southern towns are sprawling and tranquil. Carriageways wind between plantations with no factories to be seen. To the Confederate mind, a factory is an eye sore. The dignity of men is offended by the shame of manual labor. They pay for these ideals with the blood of slaves.

I expected to find Wilmington buzzing with action. This city played a crucial role in the Confederate war plan. With Lincoln’s naval blockade still in effect, few large ports were open. Blockade runners needed somewhere to deliver goods. That place was Wilmington.

I believed it would be alive with tradesmen, privateers and the like. Ten thousand people were reputed to live there. When I arrived, fewer than a hundred remained. The old town retained its coastal charm. Buildings were intact. The foundries were stocked. Lumber mills were piled with wood. There were just no people.

Not knowing what else to do in the almost empty town, I set about my work. The murder victim, George Gordon, was killed at his father’s bank, which I easily located near the water. Only a burned husk remained of the Gordon Bank.

Much of the block where it stood was burned as well but only the buildings on that specific block. It was odd. Amid so much damage, there was only one fatality, one victim. That was peculiar as well.

The murder itself was a macabre affair. George Gordon was viciously attacked. Police have been unable to solve the crime. George was a night teller. He was no rich man’s brat. He balanced deposits and withdrawals against cash in the vault. He allowed select clients to conduct business after regular hours. He worked late. Someone sunk a cancelling hammer into George’s head then left him to burn.

George’s father was distraught. He offered to pay any fee. It was a sign of desperation but Wilmington is Confederate territory. Mr. Pinkerton is a Union man. The Agency declined the contract, allowing me to pick it up when I fled. I came to Wilmington posing as an able detective with nowhere to turn. It was more or less true.

Herbert Gordon, the victim’s father, kept a new office near the ruined bank, close to the water’s edge. I pulled the bell and waited at his door. A faint voice answered from the window above.

“Get away.”

“I am Kate Warne of the Pinkerton Agency.”

A face emerged. The man’s skin was yellow. His lips were crusted black. That was the first time I laid eyes on the sickness gripping Wilmington. The town is rotting. The smell of decay is a ripe cloud. What few residents remain burn a kind of incense, day and night. I smell it everywhere. They are covering the horrible stench of this place.

I climbed the stairs to Gordon’s waterfront office. He sat alone at a crooked angle behind an empty desk. His skin seemed clownish from street level. Up close it was grotesque. The color was deepest, almost brown, on the left side of his face. A dark hue ran from his collar over his eye, as though a shadow was overtaking him.

Gordon bit at his lip. Black crust broke away. I did not offer to shake his hand.

“I am here about your son.”

“George.”

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, bounding up two at a time. I tensed, ready for the situation to turn violent, but the man who pushed through the door was as happy as anyone I have seen since leaving the north.

This was the bank’s co-owner, Louis Bannan. He showed no sign of sickness. His face was flushed from running, healthy. Bannan stood tall. His broad shoulders were pulled back in the upright manner shared by all men with money.

“Our prayers have been answered.”

I explained my circumstance. I was a fugitive, no longer employed by the Agency. The Pinkertons did not intend to take the case. Gordon and Bannan could turn it over to me or continue on their own.

“Whatever brought you to Wilmington, you are welcome,” Bannan said.

I asked to see the crime scene. This brought Gordon out of his stupor. He held out a yellow hand and swallowed air as he tried to speak. Bannan settled him down.

“That won’t be practical, Detective. You need rest. We have an apartment you can use. I will have police records delivered. We will visit the scene tomorrow.”

I saw no reason to argue. I was hungry and needed to sleep.

The apartment was long and narrow. It looked like a recent addition. The lodging was attached to the same building where Gordon rented his office. As we entered, Bannan lit candles to cut the stale air.

More incense. It coated the back of my throat. I coughed. That made it worse. I invited Bannan and Gordon to stay. They declined.

That night, my dreams were filled with peril. I slid off the roof of a train, scratching in vain to hold on. A thresher tore me to pieces. I burned at Chesapeake Bay. I fell from the sky over Bull Run. In every incident, death took its revenge.

I woke with a start. A woman’s voice echoed in my ear but I was alone in the room. My pistol was drawn and cocked. I took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall. After a moment, I realized I was resting my temple against the barrel. My finger was on the trigger.

It was morning. I heard a knock at the door. Bannan was outside.

“We are ready for you.”

What followed was a strange recreation. Gordon waited for us at the bank. It took a great effort for him to hold his body against a black cane, long as a staff. Much of the bank’s exterior fell away in the fire. Gordon still insisted on entering through the empty frame of its side door.

“The killer came in through here,” Gordon said.

“Sir, this will not be necessary,” I insisted.

Bannan put a hand on my shoulder. He gave a nod, encouraging me to let it be.

Gordon struggled forward. From behind, dried blood stood out against his yellow skin. The man was decomposing. He insisted I stand where his son would have opened the door. I felt ridiculous but did as I was asked.

Bannan lit more candles. The smell was obnoxious. My cough came back as soon as I breathed it in.

Gordon cut a slow path through the rubble. He veered around places where wooden counters and desks piled with account books once stood. It was as if he could not see the desolation, only a memory of his former business.

The vault was intact. Its door hung open.

According to the police report, bundles of bills were recovered after the fire. It was another curious aspect of the case. Why go to the trouble of murdering a teller and burning the building, only to make a hash of emptying the vault?

“This is where I found my boy.”

Gordon held his hand over the spot. Clothes lay on the filthy ground. He shifted me into the position he wanted. I stood several paces back from the pile of clothes, facing the open vault.

“George stood here, you see. This is where he kept his books.”

A cancelling hammer was on the floor near my foot. It was a crude device with a heavy iron head shape like an X. The hammer was used to mark checks no longer honored by a bank. In this instance, it delivered a lethal blow to the back of George Gordon’s head.

“These items are similar to those found after the murder?” I asked.

“They are the very ones we found that morning.” Gordon said.

“Why are they not being held by police as evidence?”

Gordon wheezed. Bannan pursed his lips. Neither offered an explanation. The shoddy work did not surprise me much. The effort by local police was a debacle so far as I could tell from the report.

George Gordon did not drink or gamble. There were no loose women in his life. He had no outstanding debts. Despite these facts, police pursued a series of dead ends. They interrogated local drunks and card sharks. They arrested drifters. Little wonder that Mr. Gordon turned to the Pinkertons.

“Did the bank’s records survive the fire?” I asked.

“Yes. We keep a copy off-site,” Bannan said.

The only useful evidence police retained from the crime scene were scraps of paper that fell under George’s body. His corpse shielded them from the blaze. They were filled with numbers, handwritten in long calculations. It was the diligent young teller’s way of ensuring that his books balanced against the vault.

There was nothing incriminating in the notes. However, on the back of the last sheet, George made one separate calculation. It was the same as the others, setting a withdrawal or deposit against an existing balance or debt. He opened a new account number for the exchange. What was interesting is that George chose to set it apart.

It seemed plausible that George might struggle to keep his numbers straight after a long day. If someone came to the bank after it closed, someone who George trusted, he might have allowed one final transaction. It would have been a courtesy. Under those conditions, George might set the record apart to deal with it the next day.

Numbers on the back of that sheet could have been the last money exchange George Gordon processed on the night he was killed. Taken on its own, this did not help a great deal. What made the theory interesting was the fact that George’s pen slashed the page under those numbers. He left a gash of ink across an incomplete calculation. George Gordon might actually have been struck on the head while adding those very numbers.

My clients accompanied me back to their office. They retrieved bank records and supervised as I looked for accounts to match numbers on the back of George’s final sheet. It was a long process. I was tired. Numbers danced on the page.

None of the balances matched George’s calculations for the new account. Gordon and Bannan were bored. To fill empty minutes, I asked questions. I wanted to keep them occupied so I could concentrate.

“Why did police ignore George’s politics as a motive?”

“My son did not have politics.” Mr. Gordon took offense.

“He wrote and distributed anti-slavery pamphlets.”

I cross checked new accounts against outstanding debts. These were recorded in separate sections of the log. It was a tangle of data.

“That was his friend’s doing. George was naive, no more,” Gordon said.

I identified a series of small debts that had accumulated over the past year. These were registered under the same client number but spread over many different accounts. By pooling them together, then comparing them to figures for the account George was in the process of opening, the victim’s final calculations emerged. One of the bank’s long standing customers was shifting money from one account to another to cover minimum payments on a mounting debt.

“We could arrange for you to meet this friend,” Bannan offered.

I tracked the client numbers back to an initial deposit. I found a name.

“Who would that be?” I asked.

“Nate Drysdale.”

I could not have been more surprised. I was looking at that very name in the bank registry.

“Mr. Gordon, I believe Nate Drysdale may have murdered your son.”

The evidence was circumstantial. Gordon and Bannan argued against the notion at first. Once I walked them through the accounts, they became convinced. Drysdale was in financial trouble. George trusted him enough to let him enter the bank after closing. The motive for George’s murder was money. Just money. I was not surprised.

Even so, the simplicity of the answer left me feeling that Mr. Pinkerton was probably right. This case is about more than a bank teller being killed. It cannot just be a matter of emptying a vault to erase a debt. Not this time.

I am trying to piece it together but, since I arrived, I have felt more tired than I can ever remember. I can barely keep my eyes open but cannot sleep. When I sleep, my dreams are unspeakable apparitions. I would rather stay awake.

My thinking has become so scattered. I try to focus. The only topic that holds my attention is the grisly murder itself. A grim notion has settled on my mind: if I do not solve the murder, I will die here.

I am glad to have Robert’s sound recorder. In this state, I cannot keep track of written notes. This will serve as a case record.

To that end, it should be noted that I have decided to accept a rather unusual suggestion from my clients. I feel such an urgency to bring this investigation to a close that I am prepared to try anything.

Gordon and Bannan believe I ought to prey on the fragile psyche of our suspect, Nate Drysdale. They tell me that he suffers from chronic instability of the mind. Drysdale claims not to recognize his own wife, for example. They live under the same roof but he treats her like a stranger. That is one of his quirks. Gordon and Bannan claim he is one step from the sanatorium.

I will taunt him, therefore, with the specter of his victim. I will drive the suspect to expose himself in some way. How could he not? Nate Drysdale was George Gordon’s best friend. Tonight, I will haunt the Drysdale home wearing the same clothes in which poor George Gordon was killed.

Before leaving, there is one more item of note. Someone broke into this apartment last night. It was late, the very middle of the night, but I heard her. When I sat up in bed, I heard the voice. It was the same one whispering at me after the nightmares. Someone was in here with me. I could not see them but I was certainly not alone.

I have decided to hide Robert’s audio device and let it record while I am away tonight. If she comes back, it will capture the sound. Maybe if I learn who has been hissing at me in the dark, I will finally be able to get some sleep.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

November, 1861

I do not give my father enough credit. He is a stodgy old muskrat from another age but, now and again, he does something to remind me; Papa is no easy mark.

He is an immigrant, like so many. Uprooted while practically a boy, he invented himself here in America out of nothing. For a man like that, the opportunity to advise a President during wartime must have seemed like a validation of his whole life.

Not for Papa. He is too much himself, always expecting things to flip sideways and upside down, always wary of a knife at his back. President Lincoln asked him to join a committee of his closest advisors. What did my father do? He lied to them all.

He told Lincoln we were done with Kate Warne. Papa washed his hands of her, handed her over to the mercy of jackals like Lafayette Baker, and in doing so turned us into Union spies. Little did Lincoln, or anyone else in that room, know that our Agency’s only actual resource in the south was Kate Warne herself.

I happened to know that Ernie Stark was down there as well, but it was a bit optimistic to call him a resource. Stark was on the trail of a freed slave named Ray who was kidnapped by William Hunt. Good for Stark.

I sent him some equipment and a bit of money. I also included a note, asking him to follow up with Kate once his search for Ray had run its course. There is no telling what Stark will do. He may not even read the note. As I said, it is an exaggeration to call him a resource.

I chose not to tell Papa that Stark was in the south. It seemed better, in so many ways, to keep that bit of information to myself. Maybe I have learned something from the old man after all.

While my father was meeting with President Lincoln at the White House, I had the rather unusual privilege of eavesdropping on the exchange. I accompanied Papa to Washington because the only man I believed could fix my broken body was Dr. Lowe.

After Kate lifted me out of the fight at Bull Run, my body was a shambles. Luckily, no hospital in the world offered the kind of treatment Dr. Lowe practiced aboard the Protocol.

His business is inventions. Many of his devices found their way into my case work for the Agency, such as the audio recorder I used in the Schulte case. Dr. Lowe was intrigued by a black market version of the recorder. His engineers made fast work improving the clumsy design. Their updated model is smaller. Wax discs are sealed in a container that resembles a box of cigars. The discs are thin. Stacked, one on top of the next, they are engraved with a thin jet of steam. The assembly allows for sound to be etched on several discs at once. Distinct segments can be transferred from one to another.

These new devices are perfect for us now that we are spies. On my suggestion, prototypes were forwarded to Kate and Papa as well as to Stark in secret. It seems a good time to test them in the field.

Despite these innovations, the Protocol is more than just an engineering workshop. Many types of scientists work for Dr. Lowe. Families with children live on board. The need for medical treatment is an everyday matter.

My injuries were severe. Doctors in Chicago thought I would never walk without crutches. The hand that deflected Kennedy’s pistol ball was to lose its dexterity. Cracked bones under my eye, where the pistol shot hit, would leave me mildly disfigured. Those were their words: mildly disfigured. I was eager for a second opinion. The professor jumped at the chance to tinker with a willing patient.

As it turned out, surrendering to Dr. Lowe was the best decision I ever made. Anyone who believes a human being is something more than a complicated machine needs to be strapped to his operating table.

In a hospital, doctors stand very close to their patients. They lean down to bring squinting eyes and quivering instruments near a failing body. It is intimate and imperfect. The situation is just the opposite aboard the Protocol.

Scientists are far away, high above the patient on a platform near the ceiling of the surgical module. Similar to a viewport on a dirigible, doctors manipulate overlapping sets of lenses to bring images of a patient’s body into clear focus. Aligned in different sizes and shapes, they achieve astonishing feats of amplification.

Surgical tools occupy even more space than the lenses. They harness enormous power yet deliver it on a tiny scale. Dr. Lowe believes the function of any large machine can be replicated in smaller devices so long as scaling is done in increments.

A piston engine is mounted near the ceiling. It is connected to a control panel on the platform with a sight line angled down through the imaging lenses. Racks of cogs and pinions are overlaid with smaller combinations of pulleys and crank rods. These tie to blades and needle points that fold and combine in different shapes close to the patient’s body. Finally, they end in pinpoint tools barely visible to the naked eye.

From the operating table, I watched a set of pincers no larger than the legs of a fly descended toward my broken face. Tendrils slipped under my skin. I felt no pain. The pincers took hold to steady my skull. I felt that part. Larger implements then crawled down the metalwork cone like insects.

“Hold still,” Dr. Lowe said from above, perhaps making a joke.

The procedures took several hours. To pass the time, we listened in on my father’s meeting with President Lincoln.

After redesigning my audio recorder, Dr. Lowe advanced the science of sound transmission several steps just by tinkering with the equipment. What interested him was the fact that air made such a poor conduit. He scoffed at the effort required to create a vacuum inside the tubes and became convinced that water would be more efficient. So long as constant pressure was maintained, sound could travel great distances.

Dr. Lowe thought such a tool would be useful for soldiers in battle. He built a device and arranged through Harry Vinton to demonstrate it. President Lincoln refused to deploy a steam arsenal against the Confederacy. Even so, using better technology to coordinate the military effort was of keen interest to him, especially after Bull Run.

What Dr. Lowe did not tell the President was that he designed the equipment to transmit sound in both directions. I was pinned to the operating table. The Protocol hovered over the White House. From those positions, we listened to President Lincoln confer with his wartime advisors.

The White House event was vintage Harry Vinton in its pomp if not its guest list. Every rung on the social ladder was present. Rich men squeezing lawmakers for favours brushed with machinists dragging crude inventions in tow. As was the custom, guests stole keepsakes from the White House. It was the sort of thing that makes my father furious.

Papa believes America’s government is the most important innovation in the history of politics. Yet Americans as a people manage to be unworthy of their own creation. The White House is being carried away in the pockets of its people.

Entering the building for the first time, my father said he was struck by its poor condition. Carpets were mangled. Floorboards groaned. Mrs. Lincoln did her best but the overall impression remained: an unloved home.

Only the East Room was true to its high function. Walls were papered in rich red and bronze. Cornices above the doorways accented stencils on the ceiling. These connected to sculpted plaster medallions holding a row of chandeliers in place.

Papa met Lincoln and his advisors in an office connected to the East Room. Transmitters from the Protocol snaked through an open window. The men expected to hear from Dr. Lowe in the course of their meeting. They did not know we were listening.

Dr. Lowe retained this excerpt as part of his test of the two-way broadcast. Along with Papa there was Lincoln, newly appointed army commander General McClellan, and security chief Lafayette Baker. Papa was the first to speak:

“We are finished with Kate Warne.”

“Fine.”

That was our President. He would not say two words if one would suffice. Lafayette Baker was more forthcoming.

“Warne has left Chicago. She is moving south. The fugitive will not get far.”

Baker was already tracking Kate. There was no telling what other things he knew.

General McClellan cut in. He took charge of the military after the defeat at Bull Run. McClellan was young. He won a minor skirmish near the western frontier but not much else. The press loved him.

“You chase that girl, Baker, if it makes you happy. Stringing her up won’t change a thing. We all want the same, Mr. President: to march the army into Richmond and beat the southerners brains in. I got bad news. Our boys ain’t ready. They need training. The troops need to drill until they hold their lines in a flack storm without thinking twice.”

“How long, General?”

“We have to get them into formation and see what they can do.”

Lincoln was not happy. For a moment, it seemed McClellan might be the shortest serving General in U.S. history. Lafayette Baker broke the silence.

“Training them in Washington would be a good start. It might give them something to do, at least.”

“How so?”

“Your naval blockade snared a flotilla of slave ships that cannot find safe harbor in the south, Mr. President. More boats arrive every day. We either bring them north or let the slaves drown when the ship captains cut and run.”

“We will not allow them to drown.”

“Of course not. They must come north. It will be easiest to take them off the open water and move them using the canals. General McClellan’s forces can secure the route.”

“My soldiers are not security guards!”

“They are not your soldiers, General.”

Everyone started talking at once. One of them knocked Dr. Lowe’s audio device off the table. It was confusion. My father did not say a word, was likely trying to size up Lafayette Baker. Lincoln brought the men to order.

“Enough. Train the army, General. See to it the slaves are received in Washington then prepare to march south. Baker: take Kate Warne into custody. Pinkerton: see to it there is no rebel mischief on the canal route.”

Orders were given. The President did not have to say another word. So he didn’t. Dr. Lowe chose this moment to transmit his message:

Mr. President. I trust you are in position. It is my pleasure to send the first voice transmission ever broadcast from an airborne station. I am indebted to you for this opportunity to demonstrate what science can achieve in the service of our great nation.

The room was stunned to silence. Lincoln was impressed. He invited Dr. Lowe to explore how the equipment could be used on the battlefield. The President also asked a favour. He wanted the Protocol to fly over the canal route to Washington and report any activity that seemed unusual.

Lincoln was determined to bring the flotilla of slave ships north. To him, it was precious evidence that his naval blockade was disrupting the southern way of life. He took every precaution to make sure the passage was safe.

Dr. Lowe agreed. He thanked President Lincoln for trusting him with the task.

The Protocol drifted away from Washington. I was recovering from the operation, feeling about as bad as I did when Kate dragged me off the turf at Bull Run. I certainly did not relish the idea of skirmishing with Confederate forces in this state.

“Never fear, Robert. There will be no soldiers on the canal.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because the south wants to separate, not invade. If there is any danger in bringing those slaves north, it will not come from the Confederate army.”

“Why fly over the canals at all then? We should have a look at that flotilla.”

Dr. Lowe clapped his hands together.

“We will. But first, this is an opportunity to fly into no-man’s land between the warring armies. It is the perfect time to test one of our new weapon systems.”

“Test it on what?”

“A railway company’s dirigible malfunctioned somewhere out there. It has been circling in aimless flight without a pilot since the battle at Bull Run. The company can’t seem to bring it in so we’re going to bring it down.”

“What? Over Bull Run, you say? Is it a PWB dirigible?”

I tried to sit up in my gurney. It had not even occurred to me that the dirigible I flew to the battle might still be in the air.

“Yes, my boy. Settle down. You will undo all our fine work.”

I put my head back down. The outburst clearly got the professor’s attention.

“How in the blazes did you know the dirigible belonged to PWB?”

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

November, 1861

Hello, Robert. So you found me. Out here in the wilds, where only madmen roam, it is as deep as it gets. Yet as soon as I arrived in Shreveport, there was a parcel waiting at the station. From you.

I’m glad to have the money. Not sure what to do about the rest. This idiotic sound box is of little use. I am only using it now so that I can tell you one thing.

We both know that you are no detective. Yet you reached into the middle of nowhere and tapped me on the shoulder. How can that be?

I will tell you how. You read my sealed case files, Robert. That is what I want to tell you. I caught you. I am going to make you pay for it.

If I make it back alive.

Whoof. I need a break.

Digging graves was easier when Ray was with me. He did most of the work. The Appalachian corridor is as rough as I remember. I promised Webster the day Ray and I buried him out here, the day William Hunt crushed his chest, that I would not leave him in this wild terrain.

A man keeps his promises. So here I am. While I dig this body out of ground, and decide what to do with it, I suppose it won’t do any harm for us to have a chat.

I read your note, Robert. You damned idiot. That bank owner in Wilmington did not call on the Agency to solve a murder. Your father should have left the case alone. Did it not seem odd that the letter arrived in the middle of so much trouble? Clients were abandoning the Agency. Your father was at his weakest yet this plum assignment falls out of the sky. None of that caught your eye?

No. You were too busy trying to keep Kate Warne from facing those treason charges, trying to keep her safe. She is a blind spot for both you and your father. Well, you both failed. She is not safe.

I wish you were here right now. You could pick up a shovel and do some of this digging, for one thing. You could also tell me what I am supposed to do with a pocket full of loose bills, an audio recorder and your stupid idea. Travel to Wilmington and pose as Kate Warne’s husband? Ridiculous.

Who ever heard of a man sending his wife alone to strange city to buy property? Did you expect that story to fool anyone? Did you think it would save her? No. I am not running to Wilmington.

You left Ray to his own devices. Kate Warne deserves no better. I am going to finish digging Webster up and then ...

I have an idea, Robert. How about this? Once I’ve got old Webster up here, I'll ask him what I should do. He was a good detective. He will see the truth of things.

There was no murder in Wilmington, Robert. George Gordon was killed but it was not murder. It was a sacrifice. You would see this if you understood the south. To you, the south always boils down to slaves instead of machines. Well, it is not as tidy as you think.

After the Golden Circle fell apart, I worried they might try something. You don’t have any idea what you’re in for this time. It isn’t the army. These aren’t soldiers. They are the people you call saboteurs and radicals. They are fanatics to you, but they are real people with homes and children. They are the beating heart of the south, its soul. Those folks regrouped after William Hunt’s wild ploy came to nothing. Schemes and trickery were set aside. They got back to basics and tapped into the only power they believe in.

You see, Robert, after living among millions of slaves for more than two hundred years, white southerners absorbed a little of their hoodoo. They soaked up more than just a little, as a matter of fact.

You claim that nothing ever gets invented down there. That may be true so far as gadgets go but the south has made plenty of advances. It is more than spells and spirits. They can stir up a poison that will make you claw your eyes out while whistling John Brown’s Body. They can put a powder in your water that turns into venom in your gut. They can make clothes on your back a toxic poultice on your skin. Anything can be made to pollute the body and mind.

What I saw once I got to Shreveport convinced me that your Union is not ready for what the south has in store. I also saw clear as day that only a maniac would go chasing after Kate Warne in Wilmington.

She is as good as lost. Dead, that is.

You had a chance to capture William Hunt, Robert. You botched it. Hunt nearly cut your head off then escaped. He took Ray with him. I came to Shreveport to bring him back. I promised Ray freedom after he saved me from the Golden Circle. I owe him that.

After petitioning every auction house I could find, with counterfeit papers stating Ray was my property, I learned he was registered at Heritage Estate Brokerage. I imagine William Hunt thought it would be a lark to sell him right back into the bondage he escaped. Ray was up for sale.

No auction house wants to sell a slave with disputed ownership, though. Heritage Estate agreed to delay the sale until a clear title could be established. That brought me to Shreveport.

The auction house, once I laid eyes on it, struck me as a slice of hell with a fresh coat of paint. From outside, it looked pleasant. It was modest in size, only two storeys. An open air quad at the center was framed by the walls of the main building. It might have passed for a decent hotel. Walls were a crisp white like pressed laundry. Flowers were freshly cut. The air was fragrant. It all masked the horror on the floors above.

Slaves were in pens waiting for the curse of the rest of their lives to begin. Some arrived days before. Others were the product of many generations of breeding. In time, each shuffled to the quad where a live auction took place every day.

The sunlit quad could be seen from the pens. It promised relief from the ghastly conditions inside. It also promised a life bent under a whip. The shrill sound of men haggling over the price of other men pricked my ears. I walked to a registrar’s desk and presented my counterfeit papers.

“You received my telegram,” I said.

The registrar took my documents. They did not match current templates but looked legitimate. He thumbed through a stack of papers. After finding Ray’s record, he flashed me a toothy smile.

By pure reflex, he moved a stack of papers into a space on his desk between him and me. He was on the defensive. His mouth froze in that twisted smile. The rest of his face was blank. These were markers. Everything he was about to tell me would be a lie.

“Your slave was auctioned by accident.”

“Where is he?” I pressed.

“I am not sure where he was taken after the sale.”

I weighed the options. The thought of throwing the man’s desk over and throttling him came to mind. He interrupted that happy image with the next part of his lie.

“To compensate, we are glad to offer you a slave of even greater value.”

A black man clomped down the stairs. He was not one of the new arrivals. This slave was resigned to his plight.

“What do you expect me to do with this one?” I said.

“Whatever you planned to do with the other. Set him free if you wish.”

That was a telling response. Somewhere, William Hunt was laughing at me.

The slave became agitated. In pens upstairs, they did not dream of leaving the quad as free men. The idea was too radical. It was like thinking that falling off a cliff might teach a person to fly.

I looked at the brute. In truth, he deserved to be free as much as anyone. This was the doubt that Hunt wanted me to face. This was his way of calling me a hypocrite. I would go to such lengths for one slave but not another. The point was made. I could live with what it said about me. This was a personal choice, not a principled one.

Ray was my partner. That was all.

I pulled the slave away. His eyes were wide with the possibility of a free life. I shattered that hope. No doubt, it was the lowest moment in his bleak life. Rather than leave the brokerage, I thrust him straight onto the auction block.

The buyers were a callous bunch. They jeered the slave’s dismay. A few bargain hunters opened the bidding. The more serious traders made sport of the man’s panic. Once this fun ran its course, the real auction began.

The slave was strong and young. Bargain hunters were forced out as the process advanced. Within a minute or two, he was sold.

The buyer, a runt with a soft leather cap hanging over his brow, paid me in cash.

Fresh bills in hand, I confronted the registrar again. I put the money on top of the papers on his desk. It was a generous bribe.

“Tell me where he is.”

The registrar shifted the pile to one side. He did not touch the money.

“They took him to the yards. They mean to ship him out with the rest.”

“Ship him where?”

“Up to Carolina. Wilmington, I think.” He picked up the money.

I reached into my pocket and found the bills you sent to me, Robert. It was more than the slave fetched at auction.

“Tell me the rest.”

“The rest of what?”

“The rest!”

His body relaxed. The toothy smile disappeared.

“This is the rest: they wanted me to tell you about the yard. They expect you to come after him.”

He took the money. I tossed his desk over for good measure.

You have no idea how much trouble Kate is in. Your father should not have sent her here.

The Shreveport boat yard is surrounded by dredging equipment. Those drills, explosives and cranes, help break up driftwood jams that clog waterways in these parts. Dredging is the only way to keep Shreveport connected to the canal networks spreading across America. Without the canals, Shreveport would be cut off from trade corridors on the Red River and Mississippi beyond. It would be cut off from the whole word.

Once the dredging project was complete, that original equipment depot fell into disrepair. Shreveport businessmen have never really benefited from the canals. They missed the boom and came on board just in time for the bust. They let most of the machines rust back into the mud.

The canal system stretches from Florida all the way up to New York. It even penetrates the western frontier in some spots. Those channels might have been a spine to hold America together. Instead, they have become a throughway for smugglers sending illicit goods all over the country. Towns that bet their future on the canals eventually went bankrupt. Shreveport is one such place.

I mounted the scaffold of a derelict crane. It was one of many abandoned skeletons from the dredging project. The scaffold gave me a clear view of the yard.

The first thing that caught my eye was a woman. She was in charge.

Crews winched long containers into canal barges. It was dirty work. Insects swarmed the yard. Workers wore heavy coveralls and masks. Each barge was packed with slaves.

The woman supervised this slow progress. No one sassed her. She had the kind of authority that makes people down here show respect.

I recognized one of the men from Heritage Estate. It was the one who bought my slave at auction. The same soft leather cap sat askew on his head. He dragged the slave I sold over to the woman in charge.

Without a word of warning, she pulled the slave’s head back and forced a wooden pole into his throat. She pushed the rod down until the slave’s gagging became mortally urgent. Just when it seemed she would plunge her forearm into his chest cavity, she twisted the staff and gave a yank.

From inside the man’s torso, she retrieved a vial on the end of the wooden rod. Whatever was inside that vial, it was intended for me. If I had taken the slave in trade, he would have coughed it up one night while I was sleeping.

I would be dead. Or worse.

The slave collapsed at her feet in agony. He was dragged to a barge. Ray was the one who pushed him inside. If not for the lashes on his face, I would not have recognized him. Ray was like a moving statue. He was hard and emotionless. When the other slaves were stored, Ray followed. He was the last to be locked inside.

That is what you sent Kate Warne to find in Wilmington. A caravan of slaves is passing through that port. They are being shipped by a hoodoo witch who knows the Pinkertons are on her trail.

Cripes!

Webster, you are a hideous sight. You smell even worse than I expected. A promise is a gruesome thing. You have been listening, Webster. The ears of a good detective are always open. So tell me; should I walk into an obvious trap at Wilmington?

Yes. I know that Ray is in the barges.

Am I afraid?

Be careful, Webster. It would be easier to put you back in the ground than it was to dig you up.

Maybe I am afraid. What of it? I have reason to be. Believe me. I have my own scars to prove it. When those people get their potions into your body and it makes you crazy. After they mark you, it’s better to stay out of the way.

Don’t give me that look.

Ray is my partner, damn you! If I thought I could save him, I would.

You cannot imagine what it is like to be at their mercy. They break your mind. You think crazy things. The acts you perform under their spell are not natural.

Dammit, Webster! You tell me what I am supposed to be if not afraid.

Ha. You have a dry wit, Webster. I suppose you’re right. Wilmington would be a nice place to be buried. I did promise you a proper burial.

Alright, if you come with me then I agree. We can collect the gauntlet I hid out here then make our way to the coast. It will be one last case before you find your rest.

You get your wish, Robert.

I hardly believe my own voice. Webster and I will find your Kate Warne, or whatever became of her, out in Wilmington.

*   *   *

Repository Note:

What am I supposed to do with this? A man arguing with a corpse he buried then dug back up hardly counts as scholarly. It’s just repulsive. The Library of Congress isn’t a pulp press. We don’t gain anything by being sensational. I ought to bury Stark’s entry. It’s only going to make things worse.

People are angry enough without seeing Timothy Webster’s name turn up in these records again. I am still convinced it is a coincidence. It must be. Pinkerton’s murdered detective could not actually be the same man who history remembers as the war’s most notorious turncoat. Just the same, journalists had a field day the last time his name appeared in these files. It is going to be the same this time.

I can’t suppress the Stark entry. All of the material I brought back from New Carthage is part of the public record now. Things are going to get ugly. Uglier, I should say. We’ve already received a bomb threat at the Library. It was addressed to me. Imagine. What a bunch on nonsense.

Police have assigned an officer to watch out for me. Hirsch. I don’t know his first name. He follows me everywhere. He sleeps in a car outside my home. Poor man. I feel bad. He is wasting his time. Who would go to the trouble of blowing me up?

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Kate Warne, Detective

November, 1861

I am not often afraid. Bitter experience has taught me that I alone set the threshold. What length will I go to protect myself? I would kill and die. The next man who thinks he will drag me to a back room or leave me drugged on a bed that is not my own will learn fast enough. Both his life and my own are the prices I have set. Once a person accepts killing and dying, fear loosens its hold.

This case is teaching me something, though. I am beginning to understand how that level of control can be weakened. In tiny increments, with each painful minute of lost sleep and every strange occurrence that cannot be explained, the threshold creeps closer again. Fear approaches until it is right on top of you.

I am certain now that someone broke into my apartment. What does it mean? I haven’t the slightest idea. One more fact among so many that lead absolutely nowhere in this case. A voice was captured on the audio device.

Sango. Sango. Ogu Bodagris.

It is gibberish. Possibly, one of the sick ones who did not flee Wilmington with everyone else became deranged and desperate. They might have broken in, hoping to find some kind of respite. That could be.

The police report from the Gordon murder cites cases of Yellow Fever breaking out in the town before the exodus. That explains the sickness and rot I see everywhere, even on my client. No wonder people ran from this place.

Yellow Fever, however, tends to emerge in places where slaves are sold or goods arrive from Caribbean islands. It does not normally touch places such as Wilmington. There is no slave clearinghouse. Blockade runners come mostly from Europe.

If the intruder was one of the sick ones, how did they get in and out without my knowing and without leaving so much as a footprint? The afflicted ones stagger through the mud, covered in their own black blood, stinking and reeling in agony. They are not good at sneaking about.

Here again, an oddity of the case leads me to questions with no answers. I feel more and more confused. A deep frustration is setting in. I am losing control and the fear I have kept at bay for so long is getting closer.

It is harder than ever to think. I have no energy. Exhaustion plays tricks on the mind. My judgment is becoming less reliable with each sleepless night.

I crippled a man yesterday. I cannot say it was justified. It happened at the crime scene. I stopped at the Gordon Bank to survey the site before visiting the Drysdale home.

The site is a strange place. The thief, likely this man Nate Drysdale, set it on fire after murdering George Gordon. Melted candle wax is speckled everywhere for some reason. A thick pole stands in the wreckage like a tree trunk made of coal. Artifacts of the crime are still scattered about, as though police had returned them to their original positions after conducting a pathetic investigation.

George’s father, Herbert Gordon, along with his business partner, Louis Bannan, blame squatters for the disarray. That makes no sense. There are no squatters in Wilmington. There are almost no people at all.

I stood in the main entrance, looking in, and was so preoccupied with these details that I failed to notice a man approach from the street outside. I was startled.

He was one of the sick ones. His skin was cracked and yellow. Black vomit stained the front of his shirt. He smelled so bad that I gagged. The man shuffled forward. He was a slave.

Two white men followed at a distance. They all came from the direction of the harbor. The slave and his masters likely emerged from the lumber mill. It might have been the foundry or perhaps the docks. Those facilities run day and night. I see smoke from smelters and furnaces at all hours.

The town is empty. Flies swarm the filthy streets. Still, Wilmington’s harbor is busy. The mills run. Boats land. No goods come to shore yet the boats continue to arrive. The contrast between the silent town and its active harbor is striking.

I stepped out of the bank, not sure what I hoped to achieve other than to see how the men would respond. The white ones froze. They stared and kept a distance while the slave continued to struggle forward.

My eyes were fixed on these men holding back when the slave pitched toward me, lunging for my shoulder. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but out of pure reflex I hit him with the clapper before he could utter a sound.

The slave launched like a cannon shot. He flew back and crashed halfway up a brick wall on the building across the street. No man should ever grab me by surprise. When I looked back, the white men were gone. The slave shook on the ground, dying from either his affliction or my assault, or both.

What was the point? Why did I do any of that?

I had no good answer. Shaken and exhausted, I simply left the scene and made my way to the Drysdale home.

On the advice of my clients, I have agreed to wear the murder victim’s clothes, acting as a kind of ghost inside the home of our only suspect. The more I turn this idea over in my mind, the more it seems both insane and perfectly logical.

The ruse itself was easy to arrange. My clients provided me with the dead boy’s clothes. I implicated myself in Nate Drysdale’s life by befriending his suffering wife, Collette. She is miserable. They are broke. Collette is trying to save the family by selling one of their properties. That bit of information, offered by Gordon and Bannan, was my foothold.

I first approached Collette as she wandered Wilmington, gazing into barren storefront windows as though pretending they were stocked with finery. She welcomed my company and did not seem especially surprised to see a new face in the abandoned town. I told her that my husband and I meant to invest in the region and had not known about the outbreak of fever.

As implausible as that sounded, the lonely woman was desperate to believe me. Collette asked if we would relocate to Wilmington. I was coy, saying that my husband would soon join me and that we intended to buy land. I expressed enthusiasm about the property she aimed to sell. Collette was thrilled. When I said she could reach me at an apartment near the harbor, she was mortified.

“You are the only civilized woman left in this city. You will stay with us until your husband arrives.”

With that, Nate Drysdale’s home was thrown open to me. I saw the suspect for the first time when he emerged from his study as Collette showed me the house and surrounding land. He alternated between staring at me and scowling at her. He closed the door. That was all.

The next morning, Collette left Wilmington to deal with urgent financial problems out of town. That would leave me, Drysdale and his slaves alone at the house. I returned to the apartment to gather what I needed. I set the audio device to record the intruder then got to work. The gambit was exotic. If I had not been so desperate, and so tired, I might have refused.

The Drysdales lived in a fine home outside the city. The estate was located on an elevated bluff that faced the ocean. The house was vast. Its main level offered a deep fireplace in the den, a vast collection of books in the library and the sparkle of a gold plated chandelier in the dining hall. The Drysdales came upon their financial problems only recently, it seems.

The most unique feature of the estate stood at the far end. The home connected to a defunct lighthouse, no longer required by modern ships. It served as a guest house with a dramatic lookout from a sitting room at its peak.

Collette insisted I lodge there until my husband arrived to view their property. She apologized for having so few servants to help me. Some died from fever. Others fled. A small crew of slaves remained to run the kitchen and maintain the stables.

The murder victim was active in the abolitionist movement, which is a dangerous occupation here in the south. His father assured me that those political leanings did not come from George Gordon but rather from his good friend, Nate Drysdale. There I was, at the Drysdale home, watching slaves prepare food and tend to the land. It struck me as perverse, obviously, that Nate Drysdale lobbied for abolition while also holding slaves. That was the logic of the Confederate south.

Collette left to conduct her business. She expected to be gone for three days, which gave me plenty of time.

I was an unwelcome guest in Nate Drysdale's home but I was still a guest. Southern gentlemen insisted on good form. Nate sent a slave girl to the lighthouse to tend to my room and needs. The girl was so small her bare feet made almost no sound as she walked. Some impulse made me want to carry her around like a doll.

I sat in the upper chamber of the lighthouse, trying to rest. It had been so long since I slept. The slave girl slipped next to me and said that I was expected at dinner. I asked her name and thanked her. It was a small courtesy. My hope was that word would spread among other slaves. I needed to be in their good graces.

The slave girl left. Alone in the lighthouse, I tried to muster an untapped reserve of strength. The few scraps of sleep I had gotten over previous days did me no good. If anything, wicked images in my dreams left me feeling wearier when I woke. I was desperate for rest but sleep made everything worse. My body felt heavy in the armchair. I held my head and tried to concentrate on anything other than the exhaustion.

My thoughts turned to the murder. I was always able to focus when it came to the death of George Gordon. Nightmares, exhaustion, murder; that is my life here in Wilmington. How many times can I picture a hammer crushing the back of a boy's head?

Nate Drysdale was in the main house, expecting me to join him for dinner. If I pushed him hard enough, maybe this case would be over fast. That idea got me out of the chair. I had to end it. I was so desperate.

George Gordon’s clothes, still stained with blood from the killing, were arranged on my bed. I could not just put on the entire outfit and hope Drysdale fell apart before my eyes. The pressure needed to be applied gradually. The weight of this unspoken accusation had to build.

To begin, I wore George Gordon’s white collared shirt under my own knitted shawl. At a glance, one might even miss it. The man’s shirt was just enough to draw the eye. I hoped it would be enough.

I walked to the house. The familiar smell of incense hung in the air. Nate Drysdale was already seated when I entered the dining hall. He stood to acknowledge my entrance. A tin of snuff was open next to his place setting.

Drysdale did not have yellow fever. He was one of the lucky ones. All the same, the skin on his face looked loose. It drooped in a way that suggested he lost a great deal of weight in a short period. Drysdale pinched snuff from the tin. Each snort gave him a fleeting boost. His eyes flared. He took deep breaths, trying to maintain his attention. Within seconds, the effect wore off and he pinched again.

Bannan and Gordon told me Nate Drysdale was feeble of mind. I did not have that impression. His head rolled. He seemed off balance, like he was trying to stay awake. He looked like me in reverse.

Maybe I was casting my own misery onto him. I could not fall asleep. He could not stay awake. We were not so different.

“They say you were up all night,” Drysdale began.

“Who said so?”

“The slaves. They talk.”

Drysdale scratched the bottom of the tin. His supply of snuff ran out.

He fumbled with the tin. It fell between his fingers. His head lilted. Slaves hurried from the kitchen. The sight of Drysdale asleep sent them running. One of them yelled.

“Master. Wake up. Wake up.”

Drysdale’s body twitched then seized. His chin lifted. Both eyes were wide open. One pupil was completely dilated while the other contracted to the size of a pin point. Drysdale pressed on the table and rose. The movements were balanced and assured. He looked at me.

The slave girl came at a sprint. She brought her face close to his. In a calm voice, she said, “Master. Master. Wake up.”

Drysdale blinked and slumped back in the chair. His arm twitched and knocked a glass of wine over. He watched the puddle spread across the table. When it reached my plate, he seemed surprised to see me.

“Is that a man’s shirt?”

He squinted at the collar poking over my shawl.

“What do you mean wearing that here?”

The slave girl was at my side. With a hand under my elbow, she urged me to rise.

“Master has not been well.”

“What are you saying? Where is she going?”

He was angry but drained. He slammed a weary fist on the table. Dinner was over before it began. My immediate impression is that Nate Drysdale seemed a prisoner, perhaps of his guilt for killing a friend. That is certainly the way Mr. Pinkerton would see the situation. Perhaps not, though. He struck me as a man lost in his own life, where everything he knew had, at once, become completely strange to him.

The tiny slave girl walked with me to the guest house. I asked her to wait outside while I changed clothes. When I emerged, I handed her George Gordon’s shirt as well as his trousers. I told her I had no use for an outfit that made Mr. Drysdale so angry. She assured me they would be put to use among the slaves. That was perfect.

From the lighthouse sitting room, I watched the main building all night. Nate Drysdale was up until dawn, stalking through the home. He was not awake, though. He was sleepwalking. Drysdale paced the estate with an even stride, unhurried. He did not appear tired. He was more animated than during his waking hours and appeared almost frantic in his dealings with servants.

The slaves tried to stay out of his way in that condition. After sundown, they retreated to a shack near the edge of the bluff. This did not deter the sleepwalker. He pounded on their door and waved his arms, ranting, once they answered.

I was too far to hear his demands. The slaves tried to calm him but it was no use. The men emerged to do what Drysdale asked. One was wearing George Gordon’s clothes. Drysdale saw the outfit.

A carriage was pulled from the stable and horses readied for a ride. Drysdale stood stunned beside the slave wearing George Gordon's shirt and trousers. The longer this went on, the more servants turned from their tasks to gather around.

A broad smile lit Drysdale's face. It came out of nowhere. He approached with his hand outstretched. The slave shook his master's hand, completely confused. They exchanged words. As soon as Drysdale stopped talking, the slave tried to walk away. Without a moment's hesitation, Drysdale attacked. The others froze, not knowing what to do. Slaves did not have the right to fight back, no matter Drysdale’s political views.

Three brave fools stepped from the group. Their lives were at risk the moment they entered the scuffle. The biggest among them pressed Drysdale against the ground. Two others pulled the battered slave out of his grip. All this, just from the sight of George Gordon's clothes. It was astonishing.

Drysdale rose. His slaves braced for retribution. Instead, he turned and walked away without another word. He climbed on the carriage and rode off.

The following morning, I found the clothes in a rubbish bin. They were sturdy garments but none of the slaves would risk wearing them again.

In the light of day, Drysdale again became the weary and dishevelled figure I had seen at dinner. The slaves seemed to expect this. They cleaned and outfitted the carriage, knowing to anticipate the same request from their sleepwalking master after nightfall.

I stayed in the guest house most of the day and waited. The slave girl brought my meals to the sitting room. The food was not to my liking. There was an odd taste under the spices that clung to my palate no matter how much water I drank. On top of everything else, now I was nauseous. It took almost an hour for me to feel well enough to get dressed. The sun was on its way down. There was not much time.

George Gordon’s clothes felt comfortable. It was the first time I put on the entire outfit, including the items I recovered from the trash bin. They felt as right as my own.

I gathered my things, easily sliding equipment I might need under the loose clothes. Dressed and ready, I rounded back to the stables. Drsydale’s carriage was waiting. The slaves saw me slip inside and hide. They also saw that I was wearing the outfit that caused so much fuss the night before. They let me be; better not to get involved in the strange dealings of their white masters.

I waited in the pitch black. The exhaustion struck like a hammer on a nail. Drifting, I saw faces from the gala aboard Lincoln’s train. I felt the whirl of a powerful narcotic overwhelm me. I felt hands on my body. I fought back, forcing myself awake. That was as close as I came to sleeping.

The carriage bucked as Drysdale boarded. He drove the horses hard but not out of control. Drysdale took the road back to town. Wherever he chose to stop, I would emerge. Nate Drysdale would face his victim.

In a trance, he took us back to the bank. He drove right up to the crime scene. I knew, at that moment, I had the right man. Drysdale dismounted. I crept from under a bench and advanced, unseen, past him to the front of the bank. Drysdale walked to the side and stood in the same doorway that the victim’s father entered on our first visit.

I stepped around broken furniture and the strange black pole. I slid the clapper from my pant leg. I was no more than ten feet from Drysdale, still waiting at the doorway. This was the time. I drew a deep breath and stepped out to confront him.

Then the world slowed. Like water sheeting over a window, my perceptions glossed over. I felt a sudden ease and familiarity. It was as though I spent half my life in the bank. Instead of a burnt shell, I saw pictures hanging on walls. Lights shone, reflecting against lacquered tables. There was a warm glow that made me feel at home.

I heard a knock. Who could that be at this hour?

I opened the side door. Here was the smiling face of my old friend, Nate.

“Hallo, chum.”

He reached out his hand. I shook it and invited him in. Books were almost finished for the night. We could have a late dinner together.

“Business, I’m afraid,” Nate said.

That blasted loan. I told him it would be his ruin. Ah, well. I could shift his account balances again. I should talk to Father. Surely, we can help Nate get this debt under control.

I turned to the papers. We would need to open a new account, shift the funds one more time. Nate stepped behind me.

An acrid smell jarred my senses. I gagged. God, I hated that smell; the bloody incense. Like a veil lifting, the real bank came back into view. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry, chum,” Drysdale said.

I pulled the pin from the tent shield. A dome of interlaced triangles exploded around me in a cloud of steam. The surge pulled me forward but Drysdale was still holding my shoulder. As the tent shield locked into place, he was inside with me.

Drysdale held the cancelling hammer. I tried to swing the clapper but a woman without sleep is not adept at judging her range. The baton caught the frame of the tent shield. I tore the side open but failed to strike him.

Drysdale focused on me. He raised the hammer again.

I fought the urge to pray. I fought the desire to seek one moment of peace before I left this world. Pushing these weak impulses aside, I looked Drysdale in his swirling eyes. In as calm a voice as I could manage, I said, “Master. Master. Wake up.”

Drysdale’s eyes regained their natural focus. He looked around and seemed completely confused. More than anything, he seemed afraid. He dove through the hole in the tent shield and ran to his carriage.

I did not return to the estate. I have been here at the apartment ever since.

Nate Drysdale killed George Gordon. That much is clear. In a sense, the case is solved. Still, I am not sure what to do next.

I could seize him but there are no police left in the city. What would I do with him?

He was asleep when the crime was committed. What was his motive? If my hallucination can be trusted, George was actually helping him manage the mounting debt. Money was a weaker motive than I first imagined. Yet, how much weight does a hallucination carry? Could I present that as evidence in court?

Hold. There is a knock at the door. Someone is out there. The audio device is engaged. If this goes wrong, there will at least be a record.

Who’s there?

“You know who I am.”

What do you want, Mr. Drysdale?

“Tell me who you are.”

I am a friend of your wife, Collette.

“I am not married. That woman is certainly not your friend.”

What do you want?

“I want you to help me. I think I killed my best friend.”

You should turn yourself in to the authorities.

“I think I am going to kill you as well.”

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

December, 1861

Killing a man during wartime is not murder. It is not called murder anyway. I have begun to doubt the distinction.

A rebel is splayed on a rooftop beneath the Protocol. He is going to die because I fired a string of lead pellets into his stomach and chest. I was not defending the Union. I did not even do it to save New York from burning. I shot him to save my son.

Is that an act of war? The answer must be no. What difference is there between killing and murdering, then? As he waits to die, curling around his wound like a clenched fist, that question weighs on me. This is not the work of a detective.

Crime is a failure. No matter the particulars, a detective always finds moral failure at the heart of every crime. More than knowing the law, understanding a person's morals is the surest way to spot a criminal.

What is the morality of war? People have asked that question for thousands of years. It will not be me to provide an answer. All I can say with certainty is that our task has changed. We are spies, not detectives. The rules are different. Did I murder that man or kill him? We need a new way of seeing these things.

Robert has come into view. For a time, we lost him in the haze. He is hundreds of yards ahead in one of the Protocol’s experimental flyers. So long as the steam platform remains in contact with his aircraft, Robert will be able to manoeuvre.

In theory, heat rising from the fire could act as a substitute for the platform. Robert believes he can fly the thing independently. I am not prepared to take his opinion as gospel. Even if the Protocol burns in the process, we are going to keep that platform under him.

Do you hear me, Thaddeus?

“This is no armored carrier. Protocol can only take so much heat. Rebels down there are firing at us from several locations.”

I will suppress the shooters as best I can.

Robert must believe he can locate turbine furnaces from the flyer. With that information, you can infer the configuration of the rest. Is that right?

Thaddeus? We are slowing down. Why are we slowing down?

Stay on him, Thaddeus!

“Dr. Lowe has been relieved of his command, Pinkerton.”

Baker! My God, what are you doing?

“I am seizing this vessel.”

What possible reason ...

“You know the reason, Pinkerton. You are the reason.”

Robert is pulling away. I am losing sight of my son.

“Did you not think I would know you were communicating with Major Anderson?”

Baker, please. This is not the time. I will explain what happened.

“It is the time, Pinkerton. Now is the time. Bring me the note Anderson gave you. Put it in my hand or, so help me God, we will watch your boy burn.”

*   *   *

Repository Note:

An ambulance waits downstairs. Officer Hirsch is going to meet me at the hospital. These are the first moments I have had to myself since the explosion. I was not injured but three of my staffers, an admin and two researchers, were killed. A dozen others were burned. One of them lost an eye. Another was thrown through a glass door.

No. I won’t turn them into a list. That’s too cold.

I have to get myself under control. How could this happen? Police want me to give a statement once I reach the hospital. What am I supposed to say? They are going to rummage through every piece of my life looking for clues. Hirsch tells me it won’t be as bad as I think. I am pretty sure it is going to be terrible. They say whoever set the charge was probably tracking me. Police figure I may have crossed paths with the bomber without realizing. They will go through everything and maybe get lucky. Maybe not.

I have no idea what I’m going to say to my team. What do I tell their families? I am the one who travelled to New Carthage. I accepted the invitation. I was the one targeted.

What do I say to them? Words are such feeble things.

- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

COPYRIGHT

The Sleepwalker and the Spy © 2014 by David Luchuk

Published by Joe Books Inc.

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EPub Edition May 2014 ISBN: 9781927854754

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THE PINKERTON FILES, VOLUME 5:

The Boatman and the Traitor

David Luchuk

Repository Note:

They say we got what we deserved. If all you do is look for trouble, don’t be surprised when you find it. That message comes through clear as day in op-ed features and soapbox speeches for tv networks across the country: shame about what happened but the Library of Congress obviously had it coming.

People I’ve known since the day I left college are in the hospital fighting for their lives. Some will not survive. Maybe it’s true that I was looking for trouble. I kept digging through the Pinkerton records in spite of all the bitterness stirred up by their release. Why didn’t I leave it alone? Maybe I liked getting people talking about the past, questioning the history we’ve come to accept. If so, it might also be true that I deserved to be targeted by the bomber.

My staffers didn’t, though. The bomb that ripped through our office, popping windows like champagne corks and shredding wood tables as easy as loose leaf, was delivered for me. I don’t mind people saying I deserved it. Just don’t tell me the others did. Every one of those injuries, the disfigurements, the deaths, is on me.

Officer Hirsch tells me not to think in those terms. He says it gives too much power and credit to the bomber. I suppose that’s true. Hirsch is a decent sort of cop, it turns out. I won’t say I feel safe around him. I don’t feel safe around anyone. Still, he does his best. It feels like Hirsch is the only one who’d feel the least bit bad if the bomber came back and finished me off.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with myself now. Do I work? Do I hide? I am at a loss. Everything is wrecked. There’s no going back. It makes me think of Allan Pinkerton looking down at the fire in 1861. That wrecked everything, too. There is something romantic about a city on fire. People call them “great” fires for a reason. They come out of nowhere and go on for days, seemingly without explanation. They are like acts of god.

If the Pinkertons are to be believed, the New York fire was different in that respect. Confederates snuck turbine furnaces into the city and set the place alight. It was no act of god. New York was ruined. Some believe New York might have gone on to become a sort of world capital if not for that fire. Nobody can say, I guess. The city that emerged is no beacon to the world. It is a derelict place, remarkably big but not much else.

Today, most will tell you that President Lincoln thought Confederate informants were taking refuge in the city and, as overzealous on the home front as he was on the battlefield, ordered an attack that sparked the fire. The Pinkerton papers tell a different story. They always do.

Allan was on board Dr. Thaddeus Lowe’s flying steam-tech laboratory, the Protocol. Lafayette Baker, Lincoln’s head of domestic security, had captured John Kennedy and was holding him on the airship, too. Robert Pinkerton launched some kind of prototype aircraft toward the fire just before Baker seized control of the Protocol. It was chaos. Kate Warne was in the rebel south, trying to solve a murder in Wilmington. Ernie Stark dug up the body of Timothy Webster and was following a slave from Shreveport to Wilmington as well. The Pinkerton men, father and son, were alone.

How does any of this justify detonating a bomb at the Library of Congress? Hirsch has warned me against trying to draw straight lines between our work and what happened. He reminds me that, beyond the controversy that has always surrounded our project, my trip to New Carthage is the sort of thing that makes new enemies as well.

—Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

My name is Allan Pinkerton. The date is December 8th, 1861.

“That will do.”

Would you like me to set the scene as well, Baker? For the record.

“If you wish.”

We are on the airship Protocol. New York City is being swallowed by fire. My son hovers ahead of us on a platform of steam in a flyer no sturdier than a dessert crepe. Mr. Lafayette Baker has seen fit to commandeer the Protocol from Dr. Lowe in order to interrogate me about a message he believes I received from Major Robert Anderson. He is threatening to let my son slip off the platform and fall into the fire if I do not cooperate.

Would you say that is accurate?

“Accurate enough.”

I see him. Robert is not yet too far beyond. He thinks that flimsy thing can maneuver on its own. Dr. Lowe believes the same.

“But not you.”

Look at it. The flyer is round and almost flat, built out of woven steel. I can see the edges flapping in the wind. It will tumble from the sky. Robert will die in the fire. We can save him. There is time.

Do you hear me, Baker? Tell your men to release Dr. Lowe. We have to keep the Protocol close. If he gets too far ahead, Robert will fall. There is no need.

“I agree. Your son does not need to die.”

Yet we are wasting time. Why am I tied to this chair? What are these metal plates you’ve positioned at the side of my head?

“Those are magnets, powerful ones, like those on a northern railway. They are misaligned at the moment. The poles aren’t pulling against each other. If I shift them just a little, your brain will shiver inside your skull. If I line them up precisely, such as they would be on the rails, I’m not exactly sure what would happen to be frank. I am a bit curious.”

You are a maniac. What could you possibly hope to achieve?

“Cooperation, Pinkerton.”

I am cooperating. My son is going to die, damn you!

“Give me the note you received from Major Anderson.”

I told you. It is destroyed.

“The magnets will help you focus.”

Baker, for pity’s sake! I will tell you everything.

“Be quick, Pinkerton. Your boy is pulling away.”

Listen closely, then. There will be no time to repeat. It started a month ago. You and I met for the first time along with the President and his new General at the White House.

“I remember.”

The discussion turned to that blasted flotilla of slave ships seized in the President’s naval blockade of the south. It was decided that the slaves would be rescued and brought north by canal. The Union army was to secure the route to Washington. You supported the idea. You also told the President that my operative Kate Warne fled south to avoid facing charges for her actions at Bull Run.

“But that’s not quite the truth, is it?”

No. I sent her south. In part, it was to shield her from the charges and protect her from you. It was also my intention to make her an informant inside rebel territory. It was a stupid decision on my part. I did not understand what it meant to be a spy.

Does it make you happy to hear me say that, Baker? I thought it would be easy. Kate Warne would earn the trust of a southern banker by solving his son’s murder then become my informant in the Confederacy. I was a fool.

“Yes.”

As part of the plan to bring those slaves north, President Lincoln asked me to look for signs of rebel activity along the canal route. I had no idea how to go about this task. You tried to offer me advice.

“You would have been better off listening to me.”

Maybe. I preferred to leave your company as quick as possible. My departure was slowed by a crowd in the East Room. Most were too drunk to remember why they had been invited to the White House in the first place. That is how Harry Vinton prefers his soirees to end. I tried to avoid the scene by cutting through an adjoining office but you were waiting.

“Do you remember what I said?”

You told me that effective spies use leverage that appeals to them the least. They put sentiment aside and choose the foulest path. It shames me to admit it but, in a sense, I followed your advice.

“You went to the canals.”

Not straight away. First, I went to Chicago to see my older son, William. My work for the President was to occupy a great deal of time. William stayed in Chicago to run our Agency. He acquitted himself well. Our affairs were under control.

One of our open cases involved a merchant sailor from New York named Jay Thayer who approached the Agency for help with a family matter. He could neither resolve it himself nor refer it to police.

Thayer was born for the water. He spent his youth on the open seas. Trade routes between Europe, America and the southern islands were home to him. Over time, he earned a reputation for speed and reliability even in bad water.

Thayer made enough money to outfit a ship and start his own operation. His rise reflects all the good things that are possible in modern America but, like every person who achieves a measure of success, Thayer paid a price in his personal life.

He was close to his sister, a pretty girl named Adele. As children, they were inseparable. During his seafaring years, Thayer visited her at every opportunity. He worried when she started turning the heads of young men in the city. She wore jeweled rings and silk dresses given to her as gifts from suitors whose names she could not remember. She relished the attention.

For a time, Thayer’s anxiety was eased. Adele fell for one of his fellow sailors, a common sort of man named Ed Henry. They were married. Thayer made it his business to ensure that Henry was a success. He knew it would benefit his dear Adele.

Ed Henry made a good living thanks to Thayer. He bought a small home in New York and was a committed husband. In the months that followed, however, there was a change. Ed Henry spent more and more time at sea. He complained about never earning enough to satisfy Adele’s tastes. Eventually, he stopped going home altogether because he could not afford to let his earnings wane.

Thayer cared about his sister and feared she lost her way. He sold his ship and returned to the mainland. His skills as a boatman were in high demand among shipping companies who ran the canals. It was dirty work with no prestige. He chose the love of family over the lure of commerce. It was a fine gesture from an honorable man.

To his dismay, Thayer found the situation in New York was worse than he imagined. Adele was pregnant. The unborn baby’s father was not her husband. Adele freely admitted she was having an affair. She was in love with another man, a Manhattan hotelier named Linus Pattmore.

Thayer was mortified. Adele drove her devoted husband away so she could give herself to a primped up society man who was, himself, married. His sister had willingly, even happily, become Linus Pattmore’s pregnant mistress. It galled Thayer to the marrow in his bones.

Ever the dedicated brother, he abandoned every ethical impulse and paid for Adele to have an abortion and insisted she break off the affair. No sooner was this illegal procedure performed than Pattmore started visiting Adele again. Thayer demanded that it end. He begged her to recommit to her husband.

Adele refused. She said Pattmore’s wife was gravely ill and the lovers looked forward to a new life together, a life in Washington high society no less, after that poor woman died. However, Pattmore was not a politician. He had no legitimate connections in the government. All he had was a portfolio of properties, expanding with every derelict building and far flung piece of land he purchased around New York.

Thayer tried to make his sister understand that her lover was a fraud and would never be elected to the Senate or to Congress, or whichever he claimed. All Adele could see, sadly, was a sunny future in which she and Pattmore would no longer need to hide their romance.

In utter despair, Thayer came to us. He asked my son William to devise some means of finding her lawful husband, Ed Henry. We were to assist in bringing him home and breaking Adele away from Linus Pattmore.

William wanted to help but, other than the abortion, no crime had been committed. He decided that our Agency could not accept the case. It was the right decision. William was shocked when I instructed him to contact Jay Thayer and imply that we might take it on after all. I ordered him to make no assurances, only to tell Thayer that I wished to meet. When I admitted that my true aim was to press Thayer for information, William protested and even refused to comply.

“But your boy yielded in the end.”

Of course he did.

I met Jay Thayer in one of the many filthy villages built for canal workers deep down in the earth near the transport channels themselves. The man traded a life on the world’s open waters for dank squalor underground.

Almost a half century has passed since the original Erie Canal was built. That first experiment connected Buffalo and Albany to New York, merging the primary waterways between the Atlantic Ocean and the Great Lakes. The Erie was such a success that New York became the busiest port on the continent. This led to expansion.

Lateral connections were built. Canals were widened to accommodate heavier traffic. The great frontier of the west opened up. If politicians had left it alone, canals would rival trains today as the primary mode of transport in America. Instead, they planned one more expansion.

The idea was to liberate commercial barges from the meandering pace of some rivers. They wanted to make the speed of traffic uniform and controllable. Engineers could not make the canals wider so they dug deeper. Some were lowered so far that they resembled underground pipes. Pumping stations were installed at key junctures. Every channel in the network was soon capped. From a technical standpoint, it was a success.

The flow of water inside the closed channels maintained a steady pace. Barges were redesigned to bob below the surface. They travelled in the current. The entire system was synchronized from pumping stations. The problem is that people do not want to travel in the dark, underground. The expansion destroyed passenger traffic.

Container shipments held steady but the nature of goods shipped in the barges changed. Canals became a backbone of illegal trade. They were perfect for it. To sustain a uniform pressure inside, the entire canal system was sealed in bronze cylinders and buried under the earth. The whole operation was hidden from view.

Towns sprung to life underground, where a generation of poor, overworked people learned to live in the half-light. What incentive did they have to report illegal activity to police? The few times anyone dared bring officers down to the canals, a quick and gruesome murder put everyone else back in line. Only the pumping station managers exerted any control over the flow of traffic. They were always happy to be bribed. The more money governments poured into the canals, the more illegal traffic they attracted. Underground villages turned into dangerous black markets.

That was where I met Jay Thayer. The pumping station at Albany was a major junction. The abutting village was built directly into the mud walls. Balconies hung at precarious angles from each hovel and looked down to the oxidized outer shell of the canal chamber. Every dwelling was rotting and rusting.

Thayer met me in what passed as a town square. It was an open patch of sopping mud between the dwellings and the canal chamber. He was happy to see me, assuming I was there to make his troubles disappear. I counted on his hopes being high.

Most of the villagers wore filthy coveralls, so weighed down with grime they became a kind of camouflage. Thayer was the only one wearing a proper pair of trousers with a vest over his collared shirt. They were dirty, for sure, but still retained some trace of life outside the place.

Thayer told me it was a great relief to see me. No doubt these men are happy to see any new faces in the dank village. He launched into a discourse about his sister and recent information related to his case. I made sure to remind him that we had not yet decided whether to accept the investigation. I apologized if my son had overstated the intent of my visit. Thayer’s sister and her lover had not done anything illegal. The only criminal act was the abortion, which Thayer himself had financed.

Thayer knew something was awry. He asked why I had come all the way down to the canals if not to accept the case. If it was a question of money, he would pay what was needed. I assured him it was not a matter of our fee.

Thayer looked me straight in the eye. After years at sea, he had seen his share of blackmail. Adele was his most sensitive nerve. At some level, he knew what was coming. I told him to convince me. My words hung in the air: convince me. I felt ill saying them.

Thayer stepped back. He scanned me up and down, as though he had not seen me properly when I first arrived. Whatever disparaging claims have been made against my Agency in the past, we have never been accused of outright browbeating one of our own clients. This was a first. Thayer wanted to be sure he had the right read on my meaning before accepting that he was being so ill-used.

A different sort of look settled on his face. No longer relieved, he was now resigned to a callous negotiation with his sister’s honor hanging in the balance. He asked how I could be convinced.

Most of America’s sordid black market passed through the canals. Thayer and the other workers knew more about the dealings of the criminal fraternity than police on the surface. I had no interest in illegal goods or the men who profited by their transport. I wanted to know if Confederate forces had started using the canals.

What Thayer said in response astonished me. He told me that the Confederate army was not using the canals because Major Anderson would not allow it. Those were his exact words: Anderson won’t allow it.

I asked whether he was sure. Thayer only laughed. He told me that, if I had the sand to blackmail someone, best not to bristle when it yielded information. He said I was ridiculous. He was right.

Seeing there was no hope of me taking on his case, Thayer sat down on a stone that served as a bench and explained that the canals belonged to Anderson’s militia. They were how he passed information. In fact, they allowed him to recruit his troops.

There is only one way for a deserting soldier to be recruited into Anderson’s fold. That is by providing useful and verifiable information. Anderson can find fighters anywhere. What he wants are secrets. Those secrets are transmitted down in the canals.

Curiously, there are no telegraph wires in the sealed canal chambers. Anderson has devised a way to transmit sound itself, to broadcast actual voices, directly through the water. Would-be recruits send dispatches to the pumping stations, literally calling into the void. Anderson himself will sometimes reply.

Thayer reached into his pocket. He took out a written note and handed it to me.

Anderson knew that either I, or one of my operatives, would come down to the canals sooner or later. He sent word that a message was to be passed to me by any soldier who crossed my path. Thayer meant it to be a kind of gift, a show of appreciation for taking his case. Instead, he forced it into my palm and walked away without so much as looking at me. He didn’t want my help anymore.

“You did well.”

How can you say that?

“You went down with nothing but came back with a dispatch from the enemy.”

I was ashamed.

“Don’t be daft.”

The paper Thayer handed me is the one you are after, Baker. I destroyed it before you took control of the Protocol.

“Why destroy it?”

Because it read: Warn Lincoln: it is a trap. Move the Army north. Commit every resource to New York.

“Why not do what he asked?”

I thought about what to do. Then suddenly it was too late. My pride made me hesitate. God save me. I did not want to admit that the best I could manage was to serve as Major Anderson’s messenger. The great Detective Pinkerton reduced to that.

“You let the President walk into this disaster.”

Yes.

“You are a traitor.”

You have some nerve, Baker. How dare you?

“Don’t be angry, Pinkerton. There is a bright side. After Robert burns to death, he will not have to watch you hang for treason.”

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

December, 1861

Webster and I kept a good pace through the wild country, all things taken to account. Him being dead, it was mostly me dragging him across rough terrain in a cart I stole from a farmhouse. This war has a way of getting people out of their homes and freeing up that sort of material.

The melee gauntlet was a help. I hid the contraption after the Golden Circle case went haywire. Once I retrieved it, and remembered how to sling it on my shoulder without folding my arm backwards, it proved useful as ever. Twisting the wrist filled steam pistons in the forearm and gave the whole thing an ungodly power. I pushed trees over, roots and all, and pulled that cart up all manner of steep terrain.

Webster and I crossed paths with Confederate deserters as we came within striking distance of Wilmington. I could tell they weren’t army regulars. For one thing, they were too few in number. For another, every order was met with a shrug or a grumble. Real soldiers know better than to belly-ache. If you are alive enough to walk, you count yourself lucky and keep your mouth shut.

The unit commander was a Corporal named Harris. He lacked the charisma of a born leader and his face was scarred with deep pock marks. It was hard to look at him for too long.

Harris was not even a proper soldier. He had been stationed at a checkpoint on the Tennessee border. He was a border guard who never saw the frontlines in his life. The others knew it, too. The only leverage Harris held over them was the promise of a way out. He vowed to get them all accepted into Robert Anderson's militia if they did what he said. That kept them in line.

Harris’ control was put to the test the moment they crossed paths with Webster and me. The troops were on edge, waiting to be scooped up by a random patrol and thrown in a stockade. I emerged from behind an outcropping of rock and each man had a rifle pointed at my head.

Guns have been aimed in my direction more than once. I’ve learned to prefer having seasoned killers set their sights on me. With a murderer, there isn’t much mercy but at least you won’t get shot my accident. With a shaky amateur, they may intend to let you walk away but shoot you down without even meaning to.

Harris ordered them to hold their fire, which they did, but I could see the gun barrels twitching. I knew enough to be worried. Harris gave me one heartbeat to catch my breath and another to explain myself.

“What are you doing out here, stranger?”

“Headed to Wilmington.”

Mere mention of the town made the soldiers jittery. They were going that way as well. Harris chided them before turning back to me.

“Steady yer’ nerves for chrissake! Bunch o’ mongrels. Don’t pay ‘em any mind. What business you got in Wilmington?”

“Bury my friend, here.”

I pointed to Webster in the cart behind me. One look at that decomposing body exposed to sun and rain under a scrap of old sheet I laid over his face and Harris decided I was telling the truth. A corpse gives you a certain credibility.

Harris told the others to stand down. Whatever I was doing out there, I clearly didn’t pose them any threat. From then on, the troops treated me and Webster like one of their own. They even helped me drag my cart over the roughest terrain. I couldn’t use the melee gauntlet around them, it being Union equipment, so the help was appreciated.

Harris figured a good soldier, even a deserter, ought to help a man with that kind of load. He opened up to me during our walk to Wilmington. I pitied him for choosing to trust a Pinkerton. I knew where that sort of mistake could lead.

As we crossed the miles, I came to like him a little. He took his life in his own hands, whatever end was in store. I respected that. I also learned a lot by letting him talk. I propped Robert’s recording device under Webster. It was no trouble to turn it on once our conversation got interesting.

“Truth is I got lucky. Word spread. Any conscript who pointed Anderson to the woman, the Union runaway, earned a spot in the militia. Jus’ so happened, she crossed at my checkpoint.”

“What does Anderson want with her?”

“Couldn’t say. Maybe she’s snoopin’ where she don’t belong. Maybe he’s got somethin’ particular in mind for her. Don’t much care, between you and me.”

“But say you find her, what then?”

“Pull her out. Bring her to him. That’s it. Not stickin’ around. That’s for sure. Folks in Wilmington get up to some weirdness. They killed a boy, burned him. His own father stood by and watched. God awful creepy stuff. I figure they aim to do the same to that woman.”

“What for?”

“Lot o’ the time with those types, it has to do with pleasing some spirit or other. When people turn up dead in those parts, usually means they’re up to something.”

Harris was more right than he knew. Kate Warne went to Wilmington to give the Pinkertons an agent behind enemy lines. That’s what Robert and the old man thought. What they really did was send a blood sacrifice to the hoodoos.

I was going to Wilmington because Ray, a freed slave who fell back into captivity because of Robert, was shipped there from Shreveport along with scores of others. I watched the hoodoo mystics load containers full of slaves onto barges headed this way. My aim was to save Ray. If I encountered Kate Warne, fine.

Robert had a notion that I would help her out of whatever horrible crisis he sent her to face. He thought I might pose as her husband, come to buy a piece of land or some such nonsense. That was not going to happen.

Whatever the connection between the slave barges in Shreveport and the hoodoo sacrifice in Wilmington, Kate Warne was not my burden. She was Harris’. He was the one who wanted to join Anderson’s militia. His boys were Confederates troops. They were the closest thing to the law down here. If Harris found Kate, a spot in the rogue army was his for the taking. Good for him. All I cared about was Ray.

We rolled into Wilmington. The place gave me a chill straight away. It was almost empty and stank so bad you wished you couldn’t smell at all. I decided to let Harris take charge of whatever we found in the town. Locals would kick up a fuss as his soldiers went around knocking on doors and looking for Kate. If I held back, Ray would be easier to find after things settled down.

“Cemetery’s in the north end. Take yer’ friend and steer clear,” Harris said.

I was happy to comply. We shook hands and I thought that would be the last time I ever saw him.

The cemetery in Wilmington was a peaceful place. Since accepting that first contract from Robert, I could not remember being in a more serene and calming spot. The rest of the town reeked. The empty buildings were taking on that look of a human place being overrun by the natural world. The cemetery, though, was a lush reminder of the heaven promised to true believers. It made me happy to think of burying Timothy Webster in one of those plots.

That was when everything came to pieces all at once. Gunfire rang from the center of town. That is not what you hear when soldiers impose their authority. It is the sort of thing that echoes when soldiers get scared and lose control.

Harris’ voice boomed. He shouted orders, trying to get the soldiers into formation. The obedience they showed in the mountains did not carry over to a real fight. His deserters ran. That stood to reason, I suppose.

If the hoodoos were involved, I did not want them to get their hands on Harris. He seemed a good fellow. I knew what they would do to him.

“What should we do?” I asked Webster.

The corpse’s irises floated in dead eyes. It was a kind of answer. Looking into the ghastly face gave me an idea. I remembered things about the hoodoos. Hard as it was to face those memories, I had a notion of how to help Harris.

I turned the cart and pushed it back to the center of town. Being with Webster made me calm. He had my back in a way. He would protect me. It occurred to me that this was his final case.

I followed the commotion down to the waterfront. The scene that greeted me was hard to understand. A crowd was gathered outside an office building near the docks. Harris and a remaining handful of soldiers stood firm with guns drawn. He was trying to convince a mixed group of dock workers, sailors, slaves and even a pair of businessmen to disperse.

Harris yelled at crane operators to stop lifting a section of the office building away from its mooring. He was trying to get the situation under control and looked like he was caught off guard by the immediate hostility of the locals.

The crane was braced against a wall, pulling a kind of temporary annex off the main structure of the office building. Operators continued to lift despite his order to stop. The annex looked like a transport container dressed up as a rickshaw apartment. Harris' soldiers fired a warning shot at the control station.

The pair of businessmen stamped their feet in protest. One looked to be on the brink of death. His skin was a disgusting shade of yellow and brown. The other was tall and fit. He made a bigger show of pointing fingers. Harris was having none of it. He turned a pistol on them and took steady aim. The men in suits found their courage depleted and stepped carefully away.

With that, Harris took charge and his soldiers surrounded the crane. The brief conflict looked to be over. I had half a mind to wheel Webster back to the cemetery.

At that point, more men came running from the docks. They were ready for real trouble. Each came armed with a gun and powder. They formed a tight line in front of the Confederate deserters. Harris and his soldiers were in no position to sustain or return fire.

There was a pause. Neither side knew what to do.

The woman I saw in Shreveport emerged from the crowd. She was dressed in prim southern fashion, all frills and chiffon. Sure enough, she was the same hoodoo witch I watched pull a vial of poison from inside the torso of a slave in Shreveport. She oversaw the operation down there and was now in Wilmington, presumably to ensure those barges full of slaves were delivered. That was a dangerous lady.

She ordered her men to open fire. They responded without hesitation. Three of Harris’ unit fell in the first brutal volley. This left only a pair of terrified soldiers standing next to Harris to fend off the attack. They were pinned, trapped between the crane and the annex being lifted away. If I was going to do what I planned, now was the time.

I looked at Webster. Again, his grisly face gave me a boost of confidence.

I walked down the street in full view. As I approached the office building and crane, the crowd bearing down on Harris shifted its attention. Men stopped loading their guns. The two businessmen stood dumbfounded with their mouths hanging open. The woman in charge turned and her eyes opened wide at the sight of me.

I was naked above the waist. The melee gauntlet was on my right arm but my chest was bare. This gave everyone a full view of my hoodoo ritual scars.

I got those scars a long time before. I was just a boy. I had a boy’s sense of what was smart and what was stupid. I followed a girl into a bad crowd. I dreamed of being a raindrop running down the nape of her neck. I thought I was in love. How else do people get into trouble in this world?

The scars form a crescent and a cross that stretch across my chest between the shoulders. The crescent point ends below a puncture wound in my armpit where a shaman tried to insert a tube into my heart. If the narcotic they tricked me into breathing had not lost its potency, and I had not thrashed for my life in that reeking cellar, they would have turned me into something other than a man.

Anyone familiar with hoodoo ceremony would recognize those marks. They would also understand the challenge I yelled at the crowd.

“Sango.”

They froze. I held my arms over my head.

“Sango!”

I had no real idea what I was doing. I wanted to give Harris and his soldiers a reprieve to gather their wits before the gunfight resumed. I expected a reply to come from the woman I saw in Shreveport. Instead, it came from a hushed and girlish voice near the back of the crowd.

“Sango Bodagris.”

The woman fell to her knees. In her place, a tiny slave girl stepped forward to face me. This was the high priest of their hoodoo cult.

I am not fool enough to say that dark spirits pressed on me at that moment. I am no believer. But I was intimidated. That little girl scared me. She shook her open palms. I think she was casting a spell.

I responded in kind. This was my moment. As she conjured spirits against me, I reached behind and lifted Webster’s body into the air with the gauntlet. Hoodoos prize one thing above all else. To them, mastery over the dead is the highest power a human can achieve. I held Webster. I showed them. This is what I brought to the fight.

Only Harris recognized my display as a stalling tactic. He knew I was no mystic. Harris climbed the side of the crane and aimed his pistol square in the operator’s face. The crane stopped with a jolt. The annex swayed in limbo.

A glance from the little girl is all it took to get it moving again. The operator did not want to get shot in the face. Whatever the high priestess held in store for betrayers must have been worse. Harris screamed at him to stop but the annex continued to rise. If Harris had been a proper fighting soldier, he would have shot the man without a thought. He was not a solider. He was a border guard.

“Shoot him in the shoulder,” I yelled.

Harris fired. The crane bucked and the annex dropped back. With that, men from the docks opened fire again. The last of Harris’ troops dropped. He would not last much longer.

No one fired at me. They were too afraid of the dead. I did not wait to see how long my luck would last. Holding Webster as a shield, I ran to the crane. Harris took cover behind me. The only safe place for us was on top of the annex.

I put Webster down and used the gauntlet to toss Harris. He spun into cables hanging from the crane then crashed onto the roof. With Webster over my shoulder, I climbed the scaffold to join him.

I could see all the way to the harbor. Slaves shipped in barges from Shreveport were now headed out to open sea. It did not make sense. The boats were headed north. They would be snared by Lincoln’s blockade for sure. It was typical southern hoodoo craziness.

Two of the boats shoving off from the Wilmington harbor did not carry any slaves. The only items loaded onto those ships were furnaces. Twenty sets of turbines came from the smelting plants and lumber yards. There may have been more.

“What now?” Harris asked.

Gunmen formed lines below. We were not as safe as I hoped. Bullets sliced the lip of the annex. Once shooters got their bearings, we would be cut down. They were already pushing us back.

“Inside,” I said.

One last idea came to mind. It made me feel awful but I could not see any other way to stall the gunfire. I lifted Webster’s body and, holding it at arm’s length, I walked to the edge. From the ground, all they saw was Webster. The shooting stopped instantly. The crowd gaped at the dead man, dripping gore.

I let go. Webster tipped over the side. The sight of him falling sent people into a screeching panic. His body turned as it dropped. Those glassy eyes looked back at me one last time.

Godspeed, Timothy Webster.

I used the gauntlet to tear a hole in the annex roof. A smell of incense wafted up through the opening. Harris was the first to jump down. I heard a woman scream inside then a dull thud and crash. I followed. My feet landed on soft carpet. The interior looked like the den of a small apartment.

Kate Warne stood in front of me, clenching a baton. She looked about ready to knock my head off. Two men were unconscious on the floor beside her. One was Harris. I did not recognize the other.

“Stark?”

“Darling, your husband is arrived.”

*   *   *

Repository Note:

I thought it would be harder to hand my whole life over to police. I braced myself for probing questions, embarrassing admissions and so on. I thought there would be layers to peel back. Instead, it was a simple matter of signing a few papers and writing down a couple of passwords. With that, everything they wanted to know about me came spilling out, easy as cracking an egg.

It’s better this way, I guess. I can’t concentrate anymore. After I got the call from the hospital, I spent the better part of a day locked in my bedroom sobbing and hating myself. One of my people died. He was my intern. He opened the bomb, thinking it would be helpful to sort my mail. The explosion cracked his skull. Doctors tried to bring the swelling down in his brain. I can't think about it.

The death changed things for police. It shifted the bombing into a new category. Now they’re asking for access to confidential personnel records from the Library; anyone who ever touched the Pinkerton archive. I refused but Hirsch told me the request was just a courtesy. Cops could just get a warrant. All they wanted were new leads and connections. No one was being accused. I believed him. Still, I made them get the damned warrant.

The investigation isn’t getting anywhere. Rather, it just keeps circling back to the same place, over and over. Who was the man in New Carthage? How did he come to possess those Pinkerton records and why share them with us? I didn’t have those answers. I never even met him face to face.

Hirsch told me they wanted more. Could I remember anything else? He seemed embarrassed to be pressing me so hard. I asked what was going on. Hirsch told me police intercepted a letter. It was addressed to me and came from New Carthage. The cops had kept it from me and even opened it without my consent. The letter was from him and it had to do with the bombing.

—Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

December, 1861

Dr. Lowe brought the Protocol out of cloud cover and we coasted above rolling hills where the battle of Bull Run took place. Everywhere, remnants of that terrible fight were in plain view. Deep burrows carved into the earth by a Confederate trench cutter slashed and bisected the terrain. Those underground trenches allowed southern soldiers to march beneath, and emerge behind, Union lines. Northerners were caught off guard. Bull Run was a complete slaughter.

I looked down at iron footings where Confederate forces mounted the trench cutter. I had stood at that very spot after jumping from a dirigible owned by an Agency client, the PWB railway company. Fugitive outlaw William Hunt had conspired with PWB and New York Police Superintendent John Kennedy to supply the machine. Kate saved me from a vain attempt to destroy it, then she knocked an airship clean out of the sky to prevent Robert Anderson from joining the battle. For all those efforts, she was accused of treason and I was left with a shattered body.

Debris from Anderson’s airship was in view beneath me as well. It was one pile of rubble among many. What I could not see were bodies. So many men died yet every single body had been carried away. That added to the eeriness of the place. It is clear that something awful happened there but the real toll has been wiped clean.

I was scanning the hills, remembering that eventful and bitter day, when the PWB dirigible came into view. I was astounded. The whole idea seemed so impossible. Once I saw it up close, however, there was no room for doubt. That was the same dirigible I had flown to Bull Run. Its loading bay doors were still open. I had jumped from that platform down to the battlefield.

Before jumping, I used a switchbox device salvaged from the Golden Circle case to control the dirigible and hold it in position over Bull Run. That device had been extremely useful, able to process vast amounts of data and even make impromptu adjustments to minute calculations. We would never have prevented the assassination attempt against President Lincoln or uncovered the trench cutter without the switchbox. I grudgingly accepted that it would be destroyed along with the PWB dirigible.

Yet here it was. Dr. Lowe had the notion of testing a new weapon system by destroying the seemingly aimless dirigible. It was to be his target practice. I convinced him to board it instead so we could see what became of the switchbox.

That was an obvious problem. My surgeries were extreme. Dr. Lowe and his surgeons stitched bones in my face together with filament wire. Tendons near my elbow were extended with leather bands. These were too thick to be packed under my skin so were stretched over my forearm then connected to fingers on my hand. Fragments of a compacted shin were removed and reconfigured. Bits of steel were melted into the cracks like solder. When those doctors told me it would be weeks before I could walk, I believed them. Crossing from the Protocol to the PWB dirigible in midflight was beyond me.

Dr. Lowe took it as a challenge. He wanted me to accompany his engineers. As always, his solution to the problem was a piece of equipment that did not exist before he imagined it.

His craftsmen fitted me with a harness. My left leg was strong. That was all I could offer: one good leg. It was enough for the Protocol’s engineers. The harness held my arm steady. A wire cage covered half my face and supported my neck. A stiff brace locked my right leg in a bent position to keep it out of the way. These pieces fused together and provided a frame for a thick rubber pipe that snaked up the harness. Stubby ends poked out from the pipe every few inches. Jets of pressurized steam shot from those stubs. The contraption supported my weight and held me steady. I floated barely an inch off the floor. By swiping with one leg, I was able to move with frictionless ease.

The Protocol advanced. Its nine round modules encircled the PWB dirigible, which shifted position in flight as though trying to find a way of escaping. There was no one on board, and I left the switchbox with simple instructions to hold its position, yet it was plainly trying to improvise a path to get out.

Our boarding party swung into position aboard one of the Protocol’s rotating modules. No sooner did the momentum of the huge array bring us to a stop then a cable pulley started building the tension required to swing the module away again. Our window to disembark was narrow. I pushed with the ball of my foot. The harness carried me off. For a heartbeat, I was suspended over nothing, coasting between the Protocol and the dirigible. Before I knew enough to be afraid, I was on board.

My switchbox was still attached to the control panel but it did not look the way I remembered. Switches bore little resemblance to the neatly packed bundle I carried with me after my arrest in New York. The switchbox had morphed into something else. I was tempted to say that the device had evolved.

Overlapping layers of brass switches had come undone. They rolled out and spread over the control panel like a blanket, connecting at multiple junctures in completely new combinations. One of Dr. Lowe’s engineers swiped a hand across the surface. Switches rustled under her palm like feathers.

“What is this thing?”

“A counting device,” I answered.

“What is it counting?”

“Options for staying airborne at this location,” I said.

“That isn’t counting, Mr. Pinkerton. That is called thinking.”

When I had connected the switchbox initially, I set rough coordinates for Bull Run as a solution for the device to calculate. Whenever winds blew the dirigible off course or a change in terrain forced it to change direction, the switchbox adjusted. It was constantly searching for Bull Run as a kind of mathematical solution.

In the weeks since, the device had refined its calculation. It added new inputs, starting with navigation controls then moving to the propulsion engine and steam chamber. The device took charge of every system on board. It unfolded itself to reach each of those controls. How did it know to do that?

The engineer lifted a corner of switches away from the panel. The dirigible bucked as the device recalculated then stabilized again.

“You’re going to hurt it,” I said.

The engineer gave me a skeptical look. She laid the corner back down. The sound of switches reconnecting was like coins jingling in a purse.

“Damage it,” I corrected myself.

Dr. Lowe’s team tried to detach the switchbox but the sequence of connections was too hard to understand. It was based on the device’s own trial and error. Some connections led nowhere. Others were so critical that cutting them threatened to knock us out of the sky. I hovered behind, pleading with them to be careful. In the end, engineers decided that the switchbox could not be removed.

Calipers and pincers were put away. Crow bars and flame torches were brought in. If they could not remove the switchbox from the control panel, they could remove the control panel from the dirigible. Dr. Lowe asked me to return to the Protocol in case the extraction failed. His team could not save me as well as themselves.

I felt nervous, floating in my harness next to the professor, watching a warehouse module swing down to envelope the PWB dirigible. I did not want to lose that switchbox device again. Engineers struggled to keep the smaller aircraft afloat long enough to complete the extraction. Cables strained and the pulley system lifted the warehouse module away. As it rose, the PWB dirigible fell out of control and crashed in the hills at Bull Run. Dr. Lowe and I waited for a message from his team. I was delighted when the news came.

“The equipment is intact. We are transferring it to the laboratory.”

By the time I arrived, Dr. Lowe’s people were already at work. There was no telling whether the switchbox could be reassembled in its original form. I doubted it. The shape did not matter. All I wanted was for the device to retain its function. No, that was not the right word. Papa might use that sort of word. Function was not the issue. I wanted the device to retain its character.

I spent hours in the lab. I wanted to help but mostly got in the way. While I busied myself with scientists trying to make sense of the switchbox, Dr. Lowe guided the Protocol away from Bull Run and toward the canal route.

As President Lincoln had requested, we were looking for signs of rebel encampments, or sabotage, or anything to suggest that transporting slaves to Washington along that route might pose a threat. Dr. Lowe predicted we would find nothing. That is what we found.

When we reached the coast, the Protocol rose to a higher altitude and we headed out to sea. The professor wanted to see the flotilla of slave ships for himself. I was busy trying to help free the switchbox from the control panel and so barely noticed when Dr. Lowe welcomed a visitor to the Protocol. If my attention had not been distracted, everything might have turned out differently.

Word was sent down to the workshop that Dr. Lowe and his guest wanted to see me in the control module. It took me a while to make my way over to meet them. As I waited for the array to align so I could move between modules, it struck me as odd that the visitor had been able to board so quickly. How did this person know where to find us? Was this not a secret mission on behalf of the President?

These questions troubled me more as I got closer to the control module and saw that a military airship was docked to the exterior housing behind the Protocol array. Someone had come up from behind, docked and boarded without alerting the crew inside. It was a Union vessel, equipped with a custom brace to connect with the Protocol.

My sense of mild concern disappeared when I reached the control deck. It was replaced by outright panic when I saw Major Robert Anderson standing next to Dr. Lowe.

Injuries he suffered at Fort Sumter made it difficult for Anderson to shift his head. Skin and muscles around his neck were fused into the same thick callous that made his face an expressionless mask. He turned his whole body to look at me.

Dr. Lowe recorded our exchange. Given what has happened since, we both felt obliged to preserve it as an official record.

“I am pleased to meet you, Detective. In a sense, this is our second meeting. If I understand correctly, you and I both attacked the rebels at Bull Run at almost the same time.”

“Dr. Lowe, call security!”

“Robert, please. Major Anderson is my guest. The President granted him command of the USS Cumberland after Fort Sumter was destroyed. He is testing steam technologies that may end this war. His use of sound transmitters underwater has proven very promising.”

“This is the most wanted criminal in America! He betrayed the Union and stole the Cumberland before murdering every living soul at Chesapeake Bay.”

“Nonsense. Major Anderson, please explain to Robert that you did no such thing.”

“The boy is right, Thaddeus. If your airship ever landed, you would read as much in the newspapers.”

“This is an outrage, sir. What do you mean boarding my vessel under these false pretenses? I demand that you disembark.”

“I will, Dr. Lowe. There is no need for hysterics. I have a message to deliver. That is all. I would like Robert to pass it on to his father.”

“I am not one of your recruits, Anderson.”

“But you are a loyal northerner. You would rather see the United States survive this war, would you not?”

“Do not play on my patriotism. You are a traitor!”

“That may be. But rebels who desert their posts trade everything they know for a place in my ranks. I know what the southern radicals are up to. We have to sink that flotilla of slave ships then move all our forces up to New York.”

“Every slave in the flotilla would die. Why would we do that?”

“The rebels want Lincoln to bring those slaves north. They are counting on it. The whole lot is infected with yellow fever. While Lincoln and his army try to deal with an outbreak in Washington, New York will be attacked.”

Despite the obvious danger to himself and his crew posed by having Major Anderson on board, Dr. Lowe spoke with complete authority. It made me proud to hear his stout conviction in the face of the monstrous vigilante standing in front of us.

“The Protocol will not be used in that way.”

“You do not have to do the killing, Doctor. You only need to stay out of my way.”

“I will do neither.”

Dr. Lowe sent a series of emergency orders that brought his airship down. We descended so fast that the ocean surface rushing toward us made me feel nauseous. The flotilla of slave ships came into view on the choppy Atlantic waters. It was surrounded by Union vessels commanded by newly appointed General McClellan.

President Lincoln’s plan to lead the boats inland and ship the slaves by canal was progressing smoothly. From our height, we could see further out to sea than McClellan. The Cumberland was rounding into position. Anderson’s renegade warship was taking aim. So was a short range bomber that launched from Cumberland’s port. Both were targeting the flotilla.

Anderson had hedged his bets. In the event Dr. Lowe refused to cooperate, he planned to attack the flotilla from two directions at once. The Protocol would be helpless to intervene.

There were two things Major Anderson did not anticipate. First, he did not think Dr. Lowe’s mind was nimble enough to improvise a geometric miracle. Second, Anderson did not imagine we would sacrifice ourselves to save a few boatloads of fever infected slaves.

Dr. Lowe positioned us inside the Cumberland’s firing trajectory. Always holding that critical angle, he and the Protocol navigators then shifted the array so that modules swung under the bomber’s drop zone as well. It was a complicated dance. I watched in awe as they made minuscule adjustments based on split second calculations. Hundreds of lives hung in the balance below. They held the Protocol in the line of fire. Major Anderson seemed amused. He did not act like his plan had been thwarted.

“Do you really think my troops will spare your ship? They are on orders to blow you out of the sky.”

“I do not doubt it, Major. However, the real question is this: do you think your army of deserters will sacrifice your life just to follow your orders? They would not dare kill you. They have invested every hope in you. Watch, gentlemen. We are going to learn something about the mentality of a turncoat today.”

“Are you willing to risk your life on this theory?”

“Yes.”

I doubt my response would have rung as true. We waited. After a time, soldiers on the Cumberland and pilots in the bomber accepted that they could not outmaneuver us. They had to shoot us down. To follow Anderson’s orders, they would have to kill him. The recruits did what Dr. Lowe expected. Nothing happened. It was a stalemate.

If Anderson was angry, his impairments prevented it from showing. He stood by as the minutes passed and the flotilla ferried toward the canals for the journey north. The final ships lined up in the canal bays. The Union navy had its hands full.

At that point, with the entire Union force occupied, a pair of boats from the slave flotilla broke away without warning. They moved fast, headed north along the coast.

“There it is. Robert. Dr. Lowe. You have done your country a great disservice today. Those boats are headed to New York City.”

We did not understand. Only Anderson saw the complete sweep of events in real time. He disembarked. We were not equipped to seize or hold him. As we watched his airship depart, I turned over what he said about an attack against New York. It was likely to be true. The flotilla was a trap. I floated in my harness, feeling pathetic and helpless.

“What should we do, Dr. Lowe?”

“We had better retrieve your father and get to Manhattan, wouldn’t you say? On the way, I have a notion of how we might put that switchbox of yours to use.”

*   *   *

Kate Warne, Detective

December, 1861

Nate Drysdale told me a worrisome story. The night he tried to kill me at the bank, he followed me back to my Wilmington apartment and admitted to murdering his best friend, George Gordon. He said it happened in a dream. That is how it seemed to him. The murder took place while he was asleep.

My first impulse was to suspect him of lying. Good liars first convince themselves that their tales are true. After that, convincing other people becomes easy. Nate Drysdale did not give the impression of being a good liar. For one thing, he was barely able to stay awake. For another, he was distraught. Most liars get so caught up in their story that they forget to be upset about its abhorrent details. Drysdale faced the ghastly truth of what he did without trying to gloss it over.

I believed him. I found it plausible that he was sleepwalking when he murdered the bank teller. It was consistent with everything I had witnessed at his estate. Once I accepted that notion, the rest was easier to understand.

I asked Drysdale what could have compelled him to crush his best friend’s skull? His answer was outlandish but, reflecting on my brief time in Wilmington, I found it credible right away.

Drysdale and George Gordon became friends as young men. They were junior members of the Chamber of Commerce. They dined together at the investors’ club. Their ambitions were the same. Both wanted to blend fortune with civic achievement. Drysdale and Gordon dreamed of having boulevards named after them when they died. It was impossible for young men with those kinds of hopes to avoid the politics of the day. Progressives that they were, the topic of slavery became a recurring point of discussion between them.

Drysdale was master of his family estate. He kept a small staff of slaves. They were holdovers from his parents’ lifetime. If he thought they might enjoy a better fate as free blacks in the south, he would have sent them away.

Gordon, on the other hand, lived under his father’s roof and rules. On their property, a large contingent of slaves labored hard. As George grew into his own man, these conditions became intolerable to him.

Before long, the friends became convinced that the practice of slavery was holding southerners back. If they were going to meet the challenges of the modern world, the south had no choice but to abandon slavery. Spreading abolitionist pamphlets was George’s idea. He knew that the material would create a stir. That is what he wanted most. George Gordon believed that, given enough talk, everyone would come to see things the same as him.

The pamphlets made people angry, especially George’s father. That was the point. George hoped that anger would lead to a moral breakthrough. It did not. People were angry. They stayed angry. That was all.

After a time, George Gordon became a social pariah in Wilmington. His father allowed him to work at the bank but the pair barely spoke. The only person other than Drysdale who was willing to talk to him about politics in the south was a radical agitator, the kind of man who did not dine at the investors’ club. This was not the sort of person who would help George get his name on any street signs. Nevertheless, George responded to letters and agreed to meet him. Drysdale did not know any specifics. It became too crazy for him at that point.

When George came back to Wilmington from this meeting in Shreveport, he was very excited. George said that the man had shown him letters from a sailor based in New York trying to ruin the good name of a hotel owner who was sleeping with his wife. The letters claimed this hotelier was part of a scheme to bribe Union pollsters and buy a seat in Congress.

The tale was little more than speculation derived from the cryptic letters of a cuckolded husband. George believed they outlined a Confederate plan to infiltrate the Union government. He thought he’d uncovered a dangerous secret.

Drysdale believed it was nonsense and tried to tell George as much. It was no use. George brought the story to his father and threatened to take it to the press. Mr. Gordon was furious. The crusty old banker blamed Drysdale for turning his son into a radical and even went so far as to call in Drysdale’s debts to coral them both. It did not work. George was undeterred. According to Drysdale, that was when everything changed.

The following excerpt will be retained as evidence. Sound recordings have served as a substitute case file since I came to Wilmington. I intend to submit this conversation as official testimony should we ever lay charges for the murder of George Gordon.

“The first change came among my slaves. One morning, out of nowhere, there were more of them. The little girl you met was one of the new ones.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I made inquiries. It seemed an odd thing to discuss with police so I asked around the slave quarters. My usual slaves were afraid. They knew something was happening but did not feel they could help me.”

“Maybe they did not want to help you.”

“Perhaps. I never learned where the new slaves came from. It was around that time I started having trouble at night. I slept but never rested. I was sleepwalking for the first time in my life.”

“When you woke, could you remember your actions from the night before?”

“Not once the deep exhaustion got its hooks in me. No.”

“I know that feeling.”

“Yes. They targeted you as well.”

“As well as who?”

“George. He was being a fool. They killed George to make him stop.”

“Why bother, if he was such a fool?”

“Maybe he uncovered a secret after all. Maybe that’s why they brought the fever to Wilmington, too.”

“Who are they?”

“That woman. The one you call my wife. She was one of them.”

“Collette.”

“If you say so. She turned up one morning just like the new slaves. That was when I went to police. It was too late. The city was in a panic. No one wanted to help me.”

“What about George’s father? He wanted the killers to be punished. He even called the Pinkertons.”

“You think he needed the Pinkertons to solve George’s murder?”

“Why else?”

“He gave George to them. He is part of this whole thing.”

“Mr. Drysdale, there are limits to what I will accept on your word alone.”

“George’s father got infected with the fever on purpose. He tried to sacrifice himself to save his boy. The others wanted George. They insisted.”

“To stop him from spreading the rumor?”

“And the pamphlets. And all of it. George’s father agreed. He gave them one condition. If George had to die, he wanted them to spill Union blood as well.”

“That is why they called for the Pinkertons.”

“Yes. Whichever detective they sent down was fine.”

“No. If Gordon or Bannan wanted to kill me they had ample opportunity.”

“Not them. Not that way. I was supposed to kill you. It was part of the ritual. I killed George with the hammer. The same was in store for you.”

“I remember having a hallucination at the bank when you attacked me.”

“Think about what happened. George’s clothes? The bank records? Your friendship with Collette?”

“It brought me into contact with you.”

“Yes.”

“Each day I became weaker.”

“Yes.”

“If not for my tent shield at the bank.”

“You would be dead.”

“I would be dead.”

“What are we going to do?”

The rest of the audio record is useless. Drysdale succumbed to a fit of despair. I made an effort to calm him but we were both so tired. I lacked the patience and he lacked the stamina to contain his outbursts. Without realizing my mistake, I encouraged Drysdale to lie down. He drifted to sleep. I tried to concentrate.

As I tried to formulate a plan to get us both out of Wilmington, Drysdale’s head lifted from the sofa. The pupils of his eyes, one dilated and the other contracted, told me everything I needed to know. I did not wait for the sleepwalker to attack. I used the clapper to knock him down. Blows to the legs, chest and head made certain he stayed there. I took no chances.

Part of me felt guilty. It was not Drysdale’s fault. He could not control what he became in his sleep. I looked at his body on the floor. Blood pooled next to his head. Maybe I was too aggressive.

Drysdale’s body began to tremble and I thought he was going to get to his feet again. I raised the clapper but soon realized he was not the only thing shaking. The whole room was lifting under my feet.

I fell back against the desk. The clapper split it in half when my arm swung back. Through the window, I saw Wilmington harbor pitch and roll. My apartment was being lifted from the outside.

I heard a crowd gather on the street. Voices were united, chanting. This chorus was interrupted. A man barked orders, trying to impose his authority. Throughout the exchange, my apartment lifted further. The confrontation led to violence. These things always do.

Gunfire echoed. There was a short volley. My apartment jerked to a halt then dropped. A long exchange of rifle fire followed. Something fell on the roof with a thud. I heard footsteps overhead, first one set then two. They drew gunfire toward the apartment. I rose to my feet and lifted the clapper. Whatever was out there, I expected it inside before long.

A hole in the ceiling peeled open like a can. A soldier jumped down. He landed beside me at arm’s length. His eye was drawn to Drysdale on the floor. I knocked the wind out of him with the clapper. Another man followed. He was shirtless, wearing a melee gauntlet over one arm. It was Ernie Stark.

I would not have been more surprised if George Gordon himself rose from the grave and jumped through that hole. Stark made some quip about being my husband. I nearly struck him down just to wipe the smirk off his face.

Gunmen outside could not penetrate the apartment. The firing stopped. Rather than try to shoot us from a distance, they reverted to the initial plan. My apartment jostled. We rose again, as before.

I guessed what brought Stark to Wilmington. Robert must have sent him.

The scars across his chest were more of a mystery. Something wicked had happened to Stark in the distant past. I decided not to ask. I did not particularly care.

The soldier who jumped down before Stark regained his senses on the floor. He rolled over, holding is head. I noticed pock marks on his face.

“Do you recognize that man?” Stark asked.

“From the checkpoint.”

“Corporal Harris. He is one of Anderson's recruits. Pulling you out of this morass is his entry to the Anderson militia, if you can imagine.”

“What does Anderson care about George Gordon’s murder?”

“Not a lick.”

Stark and I needed to get our facts straight. He told me what he learned from Harris. I told him what I learned from Drysdale. Together, we managed a rough approximation of what was about to happen.

My apartment would be loaded onto a barge along with containers full of slaves. We would be rounded up in the Union blockade then travel north by canal. President Lincoln wished to welcome slaves, rescued in his blockade, to a life of freedom. Instead, he was going to usher an epidemic of yellow fever into the capital. I was to be the hoodoo’s ritual sacrifice, a Union spy murdered by an entranced abolitionist to appease some blood thirsty spirit or other.

We could not allow the fever to hit Washington. To my surprise, Stark raised no objection when I suggested we allow my apartment to be transferred into the canal. I thought he might prefer us to break free and take our chances outside.

“I came this far.”

“Then it is agreed. We wait for the barges to assemble in formation down in the canal. Then we destroy this convoy.”

“Don’t be crazy. I am only here for Ray.”

“If yellow fever breaks out in the capital, the Union will be crippled.”

“People will get sick. Some will die. I did not come to stop a fever. Neither did Webster.”

“Webster? What are you talking about?”

We argued for some time. There was no reasoning with Stark. Corporal Harris sat up. He must have thought we were husband and wife after all.

To my surprise, Harris was more eager to help than my fellow Pinkerton. I cannot say what motivates a man to want to join Anderson’s militia. I might have guessed cowardice before encountering Harris. Whatever he was, it was not a coward.

“Let him go. Your man, Stark, ain’t gonna help us.”

“Us?”

“Sure, Miss Detective. I got an idea how to break up the barges. Major Anderson don’t wanna see this convoy reach Washington any more than you.”

“How do we stop the barges?”

“With that sound device yer’ using. I seen ‘em before. Anderson uses the same kind. The sound runs both ways on those things. If we get up to the lead transport, we can send a message forward.”

“What good will that do?”

“Anderson’s people will be listening. Tell ‘em where we’re at. He’s got firepower. Could knock out the canal ahead of the barges.”

“Alright Corporal. How do we get to the lead transport?”

“You still got that stick you hit me with?”

“Yes.”

“Figure that’ll do it.”

My apartment was mounted into a barge. The hole in our roof was covered by the rounded shell of a canal transport. We could tell when that barge entered the channel because the bobbing on open water was replaced by a steady surge inside the sealed tube. Before parting ways, Stark tore open the walls of three containers ahead of us. It was a kind of head start. I did not think there would be many more before the lead transport.

Stark headed in the other direction. He was going back to the slave barracks. Once he broke open the wall on his side of my apartment, afflicted slaves as well as all the bugs and pestilence from Shreveport and Wilmington combined would pour between.

Fighting slaves did not worry me. I was less sure how to keep from catching the fever. Again, it was Harris who provided an idea. He observed that neither me in my apartment nor Drysdale at his estate had gotten sick. It was the candles. That awful incense smell would keep the filthy bugs and disease away from us.

Stark held a lit candle in one hand, leaving him free to swing the melee gauntlet. Harris carried a candle for us. I needed both hands to break walls with the clapper. Harris climbed through the opening ahead. I signaled for Stark to open the wall behind.

He peeled it away. A smell of unclean bodies flooded the room. We could hear moans in the darkness beyond. Stark paused and let his head hang low for a moment before peering into the black void. I think he was afraid.

“Tell Robert,” he said.

Stark chewed on his words for a moment then made a gruff sort of noise in his throat and left it alone. I can imagine what he wanted me to say to Robert if I ever saw him again. Stark ducked through the wall. He was a stubborn ass right to the end.

Harris and I have made slow progress since. There are more barges on the front end than we expected. The candle provides our only source of light.

Harris’ plan is not going to work. Major Anderson will not be able to knock out the canal route ahead of these barges. The convoy has made too much progress. The barges must be close to Washington by now. That leaves only one option. He must destroy the vessels.

Corporal, we have reached the end. Bring the light forward. There is a hatch on this wall. It will take us to the lead transport. Bring the candle.

Corporal! You bloody stupid man. Is there not enough at stake? What good is a soldier if he can’t even be counted on to help break things?

There. I am through. It is even darker up here. Corporal, follow my voice. Are you still behind me?

Mercy, I hear them. They are coming.

I am installing the transmitter. There is so little time.

Can anyone hear me? This is Kate Warne. Acknowledge. I am transmitting from the Potomac canal. We are en route to Washington. You must destroy these vessels. Acknowledge, damn you!

I am Kate Warne. Whoever is listening: destroy these vessels!

No reply. We have done what we can.

Corporal? Is that you?

God in heaven! Get back. Don’t come any closer!

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

December, 1861

Dr. Lowe set the Protocol on a course for Washington. We hoped to find Papa at the White House, expecting that President Lincoln would bring his advisors in close once the trouble started. After our encounter with Major Anderson, the professor and I certainly expected there to be trouble.

Anderson had taken the Cumberland and its bomber north to follow breakaway ships from the slave flotilla. He said they were destined for New York. Dr. Lowe was mortified that Anderson lied to him. He wanted my father’s advice before making another decision that might threaten the country or the war effort. That suited me. I could not think about what was destined for New York until we knew Papa was safe.

The Protocol advanced up the coast. We veered over the mainland once we reached the dead zone that remained at Chesapeake Bay. Flying over that desolate crater, I thought of Kate and hoped she was having better luck than me.

The Potomac River led us through Virginia then cut north into Maryland. We encountered no resistance from Confederate forces. We saw training grounds around the rebel capital at Richmond. There were units on patrol, standard exercises. Nothing suggested the Confederate army was aware of the mischief at hand. Whoever created that flotilla of slave ships and planned the attack against New York City was not part of the military.

Like Dr. Lowe, I wanted to talk to my father. First, we had to find him.

The canal system connected to the Potomac River where the waterway moved up toward Washington. General McClellan’s forces gathered along the canal route as planned. The size of their ranks swelled the closer we got to the capital. This military presence peaked where the Potomac split, east and west, framing the southern tip of Washington. This was where the canal ports were located. Slaves from the flotilla were already disembarking from their barges by the time we flew overhead.

It was bedlam. Eager abolitionist politicians, along with their families, were dressed as though waiting to receive foreign diplomats. They stood on a platform overlooking the canal port. Bunting and Union flags swayed. These dignitaries were treated to a full view as the first waves of fever infected slaves tumbled off the barges.

At first, the politicians stood and cheered. Their applause stopped as soon as slaves started vomiting black blood onto saluting soldiers. Many of the slaves dropped. Others flailed and ran in random directions. They knocked soldiers down, tumbled into civilians and created a general panic. This initial wave was followed by another. Slaves greatly outnumbered the soldiers. Nervous recruits, straight from General McClellan’s training, held rifles tight. Once the first shot was fired, the scene turned into a free for all.

In the chaos, a pair of men caught my eye. They seemed the only ones moving with real purpose. They cut through the scene, away from the ghoulish mob, like a shot. One was white. He dragged the other, a slave from the barges, by the neck. The white man was shirtless, scarred all over. He pulled the slave in one hand with a melee gauntlet. Could that have been Stark?

The mob washed over. I lost sight of them.

The Protocol cruised past the canal port. Dr. Lowe did not intend to stop. There was nothing he could do. We approached the White House instead. Troops circled the building. The President was locked down.

Dr. Lowe brought us in close. He could not land so opted to hover above the carriageway in plain view of the main entrance. Some of McClellan’s trainees broke formation at the mere sight of us. It was not an encouraging sign for the revamped army.

My father stepped out of the White House. He walked onto the lawn and waved up at our airship. I felt such a relief. The sight of him brought back memories of being a child, seeing him after weeks away on a case. An unnamed dread was lifted.

Lafayette Baker followed behind. That was a less happy sight.

The professor dispatched a craft to collect Papa. I was resigned to the fact that Baker would come on board as well. Dr. Lowe’s voice crackled from the control module.

“Rumors out of New York. A fire is spreading. Some say, out of control. The President wants your father and the Security Chief to look into it.”

“Do you plan to tell Lincoln about your visitor?”

“Of course. I will advise your father and then perhaps Baker once they board. The President will be briefed on our return from New York.”

“Are you sure you want to tell Baker?”

“This is no time for cheek, Robert.”

“I was only asking.”

“I will send your father to the aeronautics lab to see you.”

“Aeronautics?”

Protocol engineers were having trouble with my switchbox. Dr. Lowe aimed to attach it to his new weapon system, which was extremely difficult to control. None of his navigators could maneuver it reliably in the air.

The weapon itself was a single pilot flyer. It was flat and round with a hull made of tightly interlaced steel, like a metal fabric. Two layers of this material were fused, one on top of the other, to create a disc shaped body. The aircraft was light. The hull was malleable but strong.

It was devised to launch on a runway of steam that extended from the Protocol. In all of Dr. Lowe’s tests to that point, the flyer had to remain on the platform of air because the controls were so sensitive. His pilots could not master it. The cockpit was housed at the center of a single round wing. From that position, it was hard to respond fast enough to sudden changes in pitch and trajectory. Dr. Lowe and I agreed that the switchbox might help.

His engineers did not understand how to set the device for a new set of calculations based on the unique design of the flyer. They wanted to know how to talk to the switchbox. I was happy to show them.

The Protocol set a course for New York. We were going to see about this fire.

*   *   *

My name is Allan Pinkerton. It is the 8th of December, 1861.

“Yes, Pinkerton. We covered that.”

What else is there to say, Baker? You know as much as I do now. Soldiers are deserting both sides of this war. They barter secrets down in the canals. If the information proves useful, the recruits earn a post in Anderson’s militia. That is how he knew the slave ships were a trap. That is how he foresaw the attack against New York.

I should have asked his advice on how to be a spy. If I had done so, I would never have sent Kate Warne to Wilmington. I would not have tried to blackmail an honorable man by using family shame as leverage.

“You would be tied to this chair just the same. Make no mistake. You and Dr. Lowe conferred in secret with Major Anderson. You hid crucial information from the President, burned the evidence. You can sneer at me, Pinkerton, but I did not betray the Union. You did.”

So be it. I am a traitor. Is that what you want me to say? Robert is gone. It is over.

“Yes. His aircraft slid off the end of the steam platform. I cannot see him.”

He is dead.

“Or burning in agony.”

Damn you, Baker! Is nothing sacred?

“My oath to the President.”

May it serve you well in hell. That is where you are headed.

“As you said, so be it.”

Robert will not even have a proper funeral. His body is sure to be lost.

Is that gunfire? Baker! Are you executing prisoners?

“Of course not. Lowe’s crew must be trying to reclaim the ship. Do not be alarmed. My men will restore order.”

Not those men, I hope. Are they yours? Do something, Baker. Help them. That one is scratching at a bullet wound in his neck. The other is holding pieces of his stomach under his shirt. Is this what you call order?

“Be quiet, Pinkerton.”

Someone is emerging from behind your fallen men. Good heavens. Kennedy! Is that you? I think you killed those two.

“Yes, Detective. I suspect so. Hello again, Mr. Baker. Your officers are not made of terribly stern stuff. They would not last long on my police force.”

“Those men are federal agents!”

“You are in New York City now, Mr. Baker. You need to do better if you hope to impress me.”

How did you escape? Wait. Never mind about that. Just help me out of this chair.

Blast! Stop it. Kennedy, I insist you stop this minute. There is no time for you to wring Baker’s neck. You can have your petty revenge later, if you must.

Kennedy. What do you think you are doing?

“I am going to kill this man.”

Stand down. Release him, I say. Get a hold of yourself. Put that infernal device away. Baker was base enough to use it on a hog. There is no reason for you to use it against him. You have beaten him down, Kennedy. He is helpless. Take that hose out of his throat. Desist!

“Would he do any different? If I did not answer his questions, would Lafayette Baker have treated me any better than that pig?”

You are above this, Kennedy.

“No, Pinkerton. I am not.”

Think of your honor. Think of your wife.

“You should be on my side, Pinkerton. Your son is dead. So is mine. My unborn son. Neither you nor I were given the chance to save our boys. Because of him.”

Stop this. Untie Baker from that contraption. This is too far. He is quaking on the floor. Have some mercy.

Ach!

“I think the hog held together longer than he did.”

What have you done, Kennedy?

“Absolutely nothing. How many people perished today? How many thousands? The city is lost. In the face of that, what did I do here? Nothing at all.”

Do not rationalize to me. That is murder! Take your hands off me. Get away.

“Calm yourself. You are free. Now we can watch my city fall in peace.”

You watch. There may yet be some hope. You did not kill Dr. Lowe, did you?

“I am here, Allan. The Superintendent set me loose.”

Where are you?

“Please speak into the transmitter, Allan.”

Where are you?

“Returning to the control module. Once there, we will reconnect with Robert.”

Robert is dead. His flyer slid of the edge of the steam platform.

“Yes, I saw.”

He is dead.

“You sentimental old man. Of course he’s not dead. We always planned for him to coast beyond the platform.”

I scoured the skyline, Thaddeus. He is not out there.

“He is cresting just above the fire. His flyer makes rather small movements with its woven hull. It can maneuver on columns of heat so long as a pilot is quick at the controls. Sadly, the system is sensitive. Few can fly it.”

Robert can?

“Lord, no. But his device can.”

The counting machine?

“Yes. Scan low above the crown of the blaze. He should be flitting along. The flyer moves like a scrap of paper caught in the breeze.”

I see him!

“I am almost at the control module. My sightline will be broken for the next few moments. Keep talking. Tell me what you see.”

He is moving as you described. The flyer is skittering over the blaze. It hits the occasional hot burst and climbs higher. Then it drops low again, bobbing ahead.

You told me Robert was helping you calculate the location of furnaces feeding this fire. I assume you know where to find them now.

“No.”

What do you mean?

“It was impossible, Allan. There were too many unknowns. That fool Anderson wasted his entire arsenal trying to shoot out the furnaces. He accomplished nothing.”

Where is Robert going then?

“To the canal port. New York City is a hub on the network. Pressurized water in the sealed channel flows into the city. The flyer is a weapon, Allan, not a crepe.”

I see the port. It is on the East River across from Williamsburg. Robert is holding the flyer steady over that spot. He seems to be lining it up, targeting some part of the port. I did not see any weapons on that aircraft, Thaddeus. What does he hope to fire?

“The aircraft is the weapon, Allan.”

I might have guessed. Something is happening. The flyer is spinning faster.

“The hull will expand now. It will get thinner and use its own momentum to harden the outer shell.”

It is tilting toward the port at a sharp angle. What is he doing?

“Robert is using his counting device to aim.”

Aim at what? Mercy! The flyer has plunged into the canal channel. It hit ground like a hatchet coming down on a butcher’s block.

“If luck is with us, the hull will drive deep into the canal port.”

The flyer is swelling like a balloon filling with air.

“Steam chambers are engaged. Good. They will fill the space between both halves of the hull.”

The aircraft looks as hard and round as a billiard ball now. It is many times its initial size. Only a small portion of the sphere is visible above the ground. It is turning the earth over like a till. Nearby buildings are falling over. Port installations tip into the river. Still, the flyer expands. Spurts of water from the canal are pushing through. They are bursting past the steel sphere in jets. An enormous amount of pressure must be building.

“This is what Robert believed would happen. Pressure from the channel will continue to build.”

An explosion. The shoreline has been obliterated. A column of water is surging out of the channel. The canal port is gone. Robert’s flyer has been launched like a cannon shot. Water has arced up from the crater left behind. The huge wave gets wider as it stretches over the city grid.

“We cannot save the whole city, Allan. However, that crater will pump enough water to salvage some of it. Pressure inside the canal is doing the work for us.”

Robert is in a freefall. The sphere is deflating fast.

“He will need to bring it under control in a hurry.”

His life depends on that counting device. He wagered everything on it. I was wrong to say a person cannot feel betrayed by a machine. It is madness but, should my son crash into the burning city, I will feel betrayed.

The two halves of the flyer are flattening again. The woven hull is coming back together. Robert’s descent is slowing. The one round wing is fluttering like a flag in the wind. It catches hold of rising heat. The flyer is motionless. Is it stalled? No. It falls then catches another gust. He is climbing again, Thaddeus! The flyer is fluttering back to the Protocol. Is the platform extended?

“Yes.”

I see. He is settling onto it. The flyer is spinning on the drawbridge.

“I will send a module around to collect you, Allan. I trust you will want to see your son as soon as he docks.”

Yes, Thaddeus. Yes indeed.

Whatever lives are saved today will be thanks to Robert and that device. What does it mean to thank a machine? I suppose I will find out.

*   *   *

Repository Note:

The letter I received from New Carthage was an expression of concern. The man who invited me to visit his library so he could share his personal archive of Pinkerton recordings wanted to be sure I was okay. Of all the things that made me angry about Hirsch and the cops keeping that letter from me, this stung the worst. A man I hardly knew had been the only one civilized enough to have an honest worry for me and my colleagues. Police stole that from me. To be fair, I could see why the rest of the letter interested them so much.

The man in New Carthage knew why the bombing took place. That much was implied. He said I was the most recent victim of a mistake made a long time ago. There were no other details but he obviously knew more. Hirsch asked if I would be willing to press him for information. He told me that bigger issues were starting to loom over the case. If the bomber was tied to New Carthage in some way, the attack could aggravate tensions always simmering between America and the former slave republic. If we didn’t get some answers, speculation and paranoia could spiral. There might end up being what Hirsch called an incident.

Hirsch also asked about a name cited near the end of the letter: Pattmore. Who was that, Hirsch asked? I laughed. My guardian officer must not have been a very good student in high school. Pattmore was the Congressman who took charge in New York after the fire of 1861. Infamously, he was the one who lobbied for slavery to be legalized throughout America. He claimed that was the only way to end hostilities between north and south. He was murdered. It was all quite famous.

But, wait. Wasn’t Pattmore the man having an affair with Pinkerton’s client? Or his wife? Or something? I couldn’t quite remember. Did Allan take that case in the end? The audio record ends without making it clear. History books claim that Pattmore was murdered because of his stand on slavery. The letter from New Carthage talks about a mistake, something that happened a long time ago and was connected to the bombing.

I told Hirsch to count me in. I am going back to New Carthage.

—Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist, United States Library of Congress

COPYRIGHT

The Boatman and the Traitor © 2014 by David Luchuk

Published by Joe Books Inc.

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Table of Contents

CONTENTS

Volume 1: Lincoln and the Golden Circle

Volume 2: Bucholz and the Blockade

Volume 3: A Burglar’s Fate

Volume 4: The Sleepwalker and the Spy

Volume 5: The Boatman and the Traitor