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