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