Repository Note:

Files hidden among administrative papers of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency confirm that, after the election of Abraham Lincoln, Allan Pinkerton pursued a series of cases that drove his operatives into the civil war. These investigations, which included a plot to kill the President and a murder tied to the Union blockade of Confederate ports, were uncovered as part of the Library’s effort to catalogue the Pinkerton archive. Our work was barred for a time by the Justice Department but a consortium of citizen groups funded by a private donor won an injunction forcing the documents to be released. It must have cost a fortune to beat Justice in court. I can’t imagine why anyone would pay that bill. Whatever the reason, we are free to continue looking for new entries in Pinkerton’s secret cache.

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

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

August, 1861

Clients are turning their backs on our Agency. As a young man, when I first stepped from behind a policeman’s badge in Chicago, I knew what it was to be independent. Only now, when the vigour I have lost outweighs the wisdom I gained, do I know what it is to be alone.

I built this Agency from nothing. What lengths will I go to save it? The decision facing me now will provide an answer.

Harry Vinton visited me again. The boy has some backbone.

Bodies of dead soldiers are still being cleared at Bull Run. Neither the White House nor the Confederate capital fell in that skirmish. It produced only two outcomes. President Lincoln’s militia may now be called an army and the southern rebellion is officially a war.

In spite of these blasphemies, Vinton wore a broad smile as he knocked on my door. He had not been to our offices since convincing me to send Kate Warne to Chesapeake Bay. Back then, Vinton did not hesitate in using my loyalty to Lincoln as leverage. It came as no surprise when he did so again.

He delivered a message from the White House and, as before, left an envelope behind with a note from Lincoln. I don’t have to break the seal to know what the letter says. Vinton made it clear.

“You agreed to help us find Major Anderson at Chesapeake. Why would this be any different?” He said.

“Our aim at Chesapeake was to prevent war, not wage it. We also took a chance on rebuilding Kate Warne’s reputation. I would say it was very different.”

“Ms. Warne has reclaimed her career . . .”

“Whatever you have her doing in Washington, she is not working as a detective.”

“ . . . and the essential point remains. The President needs your help.”

“We are not spies.”

Vinton left Chicago without a firm commitment. President Lincoln is waiting for my answer. With clients walking away from our Agency, it would be a comfort to view the choice as mere financial necessity. The White House pays handsomely.

I won’t stoop to self delusion. This decision is not about money.

There was a time when opening my agents’ private files troubled my conscience. Maybe I still have some of the naive Dundee cooper in me. That choice was simple by comparison.

The President would have me expose my detectives to the peril of open war. The conflict between Union and Confederates shows no sign of being resolved. Even if there was some prospect of ending the war quickly, we do not have the skills to do what the President asks.

I trained my detectives to know the criminal mind and master surveillance techniques. My operatives invested their careers, sometimes risked their lives, on the promise of these methods. My sons did the same. They put their faith in me.

Amid all my lessons, however, I never confided a simple truth. It is a fact that now compels me to consider espionage as a business opportunity. The truth is this: our profession collapses without the legitimacy that a client provides.

Ordinary people want to believe there is something exotic, even awful, about a detective. They hold to the notion that a detective has a finer natural instinct or is possessed of a power beyond everyday reach.

Citizens are afraid of criminals. They are afraid of suffering harm or losing property. They shrink from the idea that having something of value makes them a target. Because of this fear, detectives seem to come from another world.

We are few in number. We face criminals with little more than a clean mind informed by reason. Our craft can appear to be a kind of sorcery. It is nothing of the sort.

Individuals drift toward professions they are most suited to fit. A successful merchant becomes so, not due to any mysterious ability, but by managing assets and employees with care. For all these qualities, what would a merchant be without buyers? Nothing could prevent that person from being reduced to a hawker chased from every street corner.

It is the same for a detective. Our business requires inventiveness and honesty. Without clients, though, even the best detective becomes little more than a clever hooligan.

If there is anything exotic attached to our trade, it comes from the secrecy required to expose a well crafted crime. I mock that need for secrecy by reading my agent’s private files. This intrusion no longer troubles me.

We are under attack. I sense it in the same way one might hear a quickening breath before a thief springs from the shadows. You don’t need to see a threat to know it exists.

One of my agents is dead. Another is lost; to us as well as herself. My younger son is a criminal. We have a freelancer in prison and a slave on the payroll. Clients have lost confidence in us. President Lincoln would fill the void with rich wartime service. We are coming unhinged.

It seems impossible that so many troubles could have been orchestrated by a single enemy but I cannot ignore that they are all tied together by our recent work. Threats are gathering strength. I don’t know what to do.

Soon, we will be alone. Our Agency will be nothing.

The latest screw turned after Robert’s conviction. He and our lawyer, Byron Hayes, made a fool’s pact. They abandoned any attempt at an acquittal in order to draw John Kennedy of the New York Police into an argument over the circumstances of my son’s arrest.

Robert believes that Kennedy played some part in embezzling funds to support the Confederate south but his stunt with Hayes proved nothing.

For a brief period, after the trial, newspapers lampooned Kennedy’s refusal to explain his actions. Once those stories ran their course, journalists turned to us. Kate Warne’s reputation was savaged anew. There was no sport in assaulting a fallen woman so writers roasted the Agency.

By this time, Robert had duped me into putting him in charge of the Henry Schulte murder investigation. He sent a rogue agent to Ryker’s Island and took a freed slave to the town of Norwalk. Robert was out of contact when the most damning pieces ran.

Worst among them was an interview with S. M. Felton of the PWB railway. Prior to the war, Felton hired us to prevent an act of sabotage against his rail line. Discoveries made during that investigation allowed us to save President Lincoln from William Hunt’s Golden Circle.

In his interview, Felton claimed that we abandoned his case and showed no regard for the security of his business. These were outrageous accusations. They were also false.

Felton endorsed our change in focus when the plot against the President came to light. He participated in the investigation. I would have pushed for a retraction and public apology if I thought it might have helped. The damage was done.

Our Agency was losing contracts before the Felton article. Many clients expressed concern over Kate Warne’s character in particular. I believed their worry to be unfounded. She was wickedly abused while saving President Lincoln. Sadly, I now know that her mental stability was in fact shaken by the ordeal.

Ms. Warne has become obsessed with pursuing Major Robert Anderson of the Union army. Against my wishes, in the aftermath of the disaster at Chesapeake Bay, she travelled to Washington hoping that Harry Vinton would help her apprehend Anderson.

She was a promising detective. Today, the fact that she is employed by our Agency scares clients away.

The impact of Felton’s article stretched further. Robert gained a certain measure of fame during his trial. He set about becoming a public enemy as part of his absurd plan to entrap Kennedy. His notoriety made a bad situation worse.

While Robert was in Norwalk and Ernie Stark was at Ryker’s Island, our client voided their contract. For the Norwalk Police to release us from an investigation already underway was a fresh blot on our reputation. It sent other clients running.

It may also send my son to prison. The suspended sentence that followed his conviction was conditional on him leading the Schulte case.

Robert and the slave were in Norwalk chasing a man they believed to be William Hunt when this occurred. As a result, I dispatched my older son, William, to Ryker’s Island along with Byron Hayes to negotiate Ernie Stark’s release.

It pained me to intervene on behalf of a man who stood idly by while Timothy Webster was murdered. I would rather have left him at Ryker’s to meet the only fate he deserves.

We had received too much negative press. We could not have another agent die on duty.

William was to resolve the matter quickly. I needed him for the only case we had left; the Geneva bank robbery. He was the one person I knew I could trust.

William and my assistant Ginny Higgs, that is. I would not have made any progress in understanding the forces aligned against us if not for her.

Have I made any real progress? There was a time when I would have said yes.

After Webster’s murder and William Hunt’s escape, I felt that actors in the conspiracy would be revealed. The President’s call for aid at Chesapeake Bay pushed us into the fight between Union and Confederates. I was certain that information would be jarred loose. At every turn, I felt I was on the verge of understanding. Each time, I was left looking for more.

An awful uncertainty has crept into my thoughts. Perhaps I am just an old man jumping at shadows. Are we under attack because I have not unmasked the people conspiring against us? Or are we at the brink of failure because I am trying to unmask people who don’t exist?

With doubt pressing down, I must choose between two paths. If I do what the President asks we will become Union spies. If I refuse, we may cease to exist.

I hoped that our investigation of the Geneva bank robbery would help me avoid the decision. It ought to have been an easy case. With a modest success, we could have regained the trust of more significant clients. The President’s offer could have been set aside.

I am reminded again of the Dundee simpleton I used to be in a former life. With age, maybe we all revert to simpler ways of looking at things even when it leads us to error.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

June, 1861

For certain, I drank too much bourbon at the Emerald Tap House. My wits could have been slowed by the liquor. Even so, the manners of small town police were hard to understand.

I delivered a murder suspect into custody. I provided audio evidence that, Ray assures me, amounts to a confession of the man’s role in killing Henry Schulte. I expected some enthusiasm, if not gratitude.

While patrons at the Emerald recovered from the optical stunner, Ray and I dragged one of our attackers to Norwalk police station. This man had conspired with other slave hunters to kill Schulte and take over his business. William Hunt was, that very night, on his way to a local farmhouse to recover the dead man’s account log.

It was sensational progress. At the station, the overnight constable scrambled from his booth to lecture us about a committee and an annulment clause in our contract.

“Your mandate may already be void. You cannot seize a man without valid authority.” He said. “And what on earth is this?”

He motioned toward Ray.

“He’s a deputy of the Pinkerton Agency.”

“My God, did this man participate in the arrest?”

The prisoner moaned, coming back to his senses while clamped in the harness restraint. He fell forward and retched. A belly full of beer and food spilled out.

“Detective, release this man.” The constable said. “You and your deputy will wait for the Captain to settle the question of your mandate.”

“When will that be?”

“The committee should break with a decision tonight. The Captain will be here by morning; six o’clock at the latest.”

It seemed we had as much chance of being arrested as the suspect. Ray was the first to act. He held our prisoner down and unlocked the restraint, winching it back into its box.

“Police say release him.” He said. “But we’re not waiting. That was Hunt at the bar.”

The constable stepped around a puddle of sick. He pointed a finger at Ray.

“You do not have a valid mandate. You may not seize citizens in our county.”

Ray held out his hand. The constable recoiled from the black man’s touch. He leaned away, caught between stepping back into the vomit or forward toward Ray’s palm. The weasel cringed and moved off, choosing to stand in the suspect’s last meal.

“You wait here for yer’ Captain.” Ray said. “Tell him we’ll be at Waring farm. Maybe we’ll still be there at six o’clock.”

It was the sort of answer I would like to have given.

“We’ll try not to do any seizing until he gets there.” I said.

Ray gave me a queer look. It wasn’t quite as biting a comment as I hoped.

We hurried back to the hotel to gather equipment and sketch a plan. Our strategy didn’t amount to much. We would go to the Waring farm and sneak in to the barn or, if necessary, the house. By finding the account log, we were likely to come across William Hunt.

There was nothing complicated about it. My equipment took more time to prepare.

I stripped down to my undergarments. Father would have shaken his head.

One of our clients in the mining sector invented this jackleg chassis. The idea was to equip a single miner with tools and torque enough to drill, break and clear remote coal seams deep underground.

The chassis locked around my waist with a cinch attached to steel bands over the shoulders and across the chest. A steam chamber was housed inside a flexible brace running up the spine. Joints located at the knees, hips, shoulders and elbows were fixed with disc shaped fasteners welded into the steel frame. Everything from borehole drills and explosive detonators to crossbar roof supports and mini conveyors could be attached to the chassis.

Two narrow pistons ran down the right leg. These powered a winch that ended with a carbine bit jutting from the toe of my boot. A miner could kick the bit into a stubborn piece of stone and use the hydraulic winch to pry it loose. It was the chassis’ only permanent attachment.

I pulled my pants over the pistons and peered into a crate I brought from Chicago. There were so many options. I fastened a borehole driller to the chassis’ left elbow. It extended past my wrist, eight inches beyond a clenched fist.

A dragline caster went on my right arm. It was heavier and required more dexterity. With it, I could fire an iron sinker as far as fifty feet ahead by whipping my arm in a compact arc. In a mine shaft, a filament wire would slash rock and debris covering a coal deposit when the sinker retracted. For my ends, it would be more useful fighting in close quarters.

We set out for the Waring property. Ray carried other tools in a sack. He refused my offer to share the equipment.

“Yer’ better with that stuff.” He said. “I do fine in my own way.”

It was true. Even with the chassis, I cringed at the thought of coming to blows with Ray.

We took our bearings from a hilltop a quarter mile away. Viewport goggles gave us a clear sightline but low cloud cover and a quarter moon obscured some of the detail.

The farm had a familiar layout. A house sat on the highest perch, a hundred yards from the main entrance. Ruts of a wagon path ran from the house down to a pair of buildings. One was a tool shed. The other was a barn. Crops stretched out of view beyond.

A flicker of candlelight danced in the house. It started upstairs then descended.

“Comin’ out.” Ray said.

Two figures emerged. The first was William Hunt. The second was Sadie Waring, holding the candle. Hunt leaned across and blew it out once they stepped off the porch.

Our investigation had revealed that the scoundrel William Bucholz, who had been accused of killing Henry Schulte, was innocent. He claimed to be with Sadie Waring on the night of the murder. Her refusal to confirm this alibi led to his arrest.

“Did she betray Bucholz from the start? Maybe she has a stake in this.” I said.

Sadie might have been in line for a piece of the slave hunting business. That would have been enough motivation to dupe Bucholz into trusting her. She might also have helped blackmail Judge Terrence Mansfield with the account log.

It was essential that we find that device before William Hunt. Most think of an account log as a book. In fact, it is more of an iron abacus. It is an adding machine that tracks cash flow.

Entrepreneurs across the Union have begun sharing information about the cost of goods and the volume of major sales. Account logs are plugged into ledgers at major banks to update investments, liquidity and returns.

This information helps banks and stock managers set commodity prices. Slaves are still a commodity in America. Schulte’s account log is part of a system that sets the price of men.

“She’s no partner of his.” Ray said. “Hunt’s got a knife on her. He can kill her quick.”

I squinted. Hunt did seem to have something propped under Sadie’s arm.

We cut a wide path to the Waring property. It was long but, keeping out of sight, we ran most of the way. By the time we reached the fence, candlelight winked again inside the barn.

I crawled to the building. Years of exposure left part of the wall sagging. I jammed the carbide bit under the panels and pumped my heel to draw steam into the pistons.

It wouldn’t be the quietest entrance. So long as only the rotten wood fell away, I felt there was a good chance of getting inside unnoticed. I was about to squat at the knee to engage the winch when a pebble bounced off my shoulder.

Further down, Ray had pried open a feedlot door. The smell was rank. The ground was wet with animal waste. It was awful but still the better option.

We crept low past the feed stalls. Faint light flickered ahead, shining on the underside of a hay loft. Ray put a hand on my shoulder to hold me back and call attention to a hatch in the floor. Loose hay had been brushed aside. The hatch was open.

If Schulte’s account log had been inside, it was gone now. I assumed the same of William Hunt. My mind raced. How could we keep him from escaping? Where might he try to go?

Ray and I walked out from under the loft. It was a stupid mistake, an obvious trap. When I heard Sadie Waring scream above, I wasn’t surprised as much as annoyed.

William Hunt lifted the girl over his head and threw her down at us. I had seen burglars use hostages as shields. Hunt used her as a weapon.

Ray lunged forward to catch her. Hunt jumped toward me with his knife drawn.

I whipped my right arm across my torso. The iron sinker and filament wire burst from the dragline device, careening toward Hunt as he fell. I worried that the impact would be too heavy. Local police would not look kindly on me killing a man without a mandate.

Hunt hoisted his legs. His knees and ears almost touched. The sinker shot between his heels and splintered the loft. Hay and woodchip tossed in the air as the dragline retracted.

Hunt drove his boots into my chest. I slammed onto the floor. Steam canisters dug into my spine. He landed on me so hard it felt like he jumped from the loft a second time.

As Stark once said, the skin on Hunt’s face looked as though it had been pulled tight over his skull. I could see his bones. Eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. His teeth looked huge.

I saw a glint as Hunt drew back his knife. He smiled with those mad teeth. I did not feel any particular panic but it occurred to me that I was about to die. The blade swung down, slicing into my neck. Hunt would have cut my head off if Ray had not lifted him away.

The knife slid from my neck up to my jaw. Its cutting edge poked through my throat and touched the bottom of my tongue. Amid the blood and saliva, I tasted it.

Hunt hooked the blade under my chin. It dug into my jaw bone. I felt every nick and dull spot rattle through my teeth. At last, Ray threw him clear.

I fell to the floor. My body trembled in shock.

William Hunt skidded across the barn. He rolled once then got his feet underneath him. He was poised to strike even as he continued to slide from the force of Ray’s throw.

Hunt flipped his knife, caught the blade between his fingers and drew back. Taking aim at Ray, he paused then lowered his hand. Again, Hunt’s awful smile emerged.

“I thought we lost you at Harrisburg.”

“You did.” Ray said.

Hunt jammed the buck knife back into his belt. He saw Sadie Waring scramble out of the barn but made no attempt to stop her. His attention was focused on Ray.

“Dump that garbage out of yer’ bag and load the old man’s contraption.” Hunt said. “We’re leaving.”

“We’ll leave together. But not like you think.”

Ray sprung forward, striking a terrible blow against Hunt’s temple. His head was knocked so far down it tucked under his arm. The rest of his body stood firm. Ray was off balance, following through from the punch. Hunt drove his knee up into his chest.

Ray fell. I did not think such a thing was possible.

Hunt jumped on him and swiped his fingers across the deep scars on Ray’s face. He ranted in a thick southern slang that was impenetrable to me. Hunt seemed to retell the story of each lash on Ray’s skin. It was withering, all the more so because he didn’t hit him once.

Hunt stood. Ray rolled onto his hands and knees, head low.

“Be sure to kill that one before we go.” Hunt said.

Ray looked over. He did not recognize me. At that moment, more than I had been with Hunt’s knife at my throat, I was afraid.

A commotion saved me. Voices outside echoed in the barn. Hunt emptied the sack then slid Schulte’s account log inside. Ray picked it up and followed him out the back.

Police officers charged in from the front. I could hear Sadie wailing in the distance. Her father shouted about a man breaking into the house and kidnapping his girl.

They eyed me on the ground, blood spilling from my face. I saw the constable kick a first boot into my ribs. After that, something cracked me over the head.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

July, 1861

I was ready to wring Robert’s neck. I had visions of taking years off his life.

The sliding walkway came to a stop at an interview room where I was greeted by the unsmiling face of William instead. I was worried. Something must have gone wrong.

Robert was an idiot but he would never have sent me to Ryker’s Island knowing that Saul Mathews from the Golden Circle was waiting. That was the sort of thing only William would do.

Physically, the brothers shared their father’s features. The brow gives them away. Pinkertons always appear to be thinking hard even when, like Robert, they are not.

The difference between them is revealed in more delicate features. William has dry patches on his skin. His jaw sticks out. His nose bends at the ridge. It is as though their mother had an easier time giving birth to Robert and her pain is etched all over William’s face.

My shackles fell away. A wall folded behind me, cutting me off at last from the prison. I was alone with William and the Agency’s lawyer, Byron Hayes.

“Sign this.”

It was the same thing Ray ordered me to do on the train fleeing to Philadelphia. The Golden Circle had laid waste to a rail yard. I had seen Ray kill with a swipe of his hand. I was still less reluctant to sign the paper he put in front of me than I was with William.

“Don’t act like you have any options.” William said. “I don’t know what sort of deal Robert cooked up with prosecutors . . .”

“Where is Robert?”

“He is in jail, like you. The Norwalk police are handing him over in New York.”

I didn’t want to believe him. It did sound like Robert, though.

“We vouched for you as an employee of the Pinkerton Agency.” Hayes said. “That is the only reason you are being released.”

“I’m not a Pinkerton employee.”

“You will be after you sign these papers.” Hayes said.

The idea was repulsive. I spent years doing jobs that others viewed as impossible or irrelevant just to avoid being someone’s employee.

“It’s this or we send you back.” William said. “So long as you are with us, the administrators at Ryker’s will treat your file as being under review.”

“Let them review it.” I said. “I was only here because Robert wanted access to Bucholz.”

William turned to Hayes. They had rehearsed this part.

“Yes, well. A thorough review could take a long time. You would remain in custody for the duration. It would not be in your best interests, Mr. Stark.”

I signed the blasted thing. Robert and I both lost our freedom without ever getting to the bottom of Henry Schulte’s murder.

“That file is dead.” William said. “Robert was arrested for trespassing on a farm after the client voided the contract.”

“What was he doing at Waring farm?”

“I have no idea.”

Hayes stayed behind to file paperwork. William hired us a carriage to Union Station.

At the rail yard, we rode a lift to the upper platforms. As we passed between scaffolds, sparks floated onto our shoulders. A team of electricians was outfitting trains on all four levels at the same time.

Thick wires swung down to the ground. They bumped and sparked against the outside of our lift. Men snatched at the cords, fighting each other to power their tools. They yelled threats one minute then shouted encouragement as the work moved along. New York was its usual self.

I never liked this city. The people are like dogs that can’t decide who to bite first.

William led me to two rail cars he reserved for us. They were connected by a shared doorway. My car was both a sleeper and an office. It was more than I needed for a trip to Chicago.

Police files were piled on a desk beneath the window. Clothes and personal effects, confiscated after my arrest for passing bad cheques, sat in a box on the floor.

I rummaged through the items and found that police had returned the money I swindled before getting caught. My case was in limbo so my property was restored. There were four thousand dollars in my jacket.

Our train launched into the tangled Union Station exchange. William entered my room, leaving the door open so I could see the difference between our accommodations. A stocked liquor cabinet was open. Porters cleaned his pistols. Meat sizzled on a burner out of sight.

“All the information is on the desk.” He said. “It’s not a complicated case.”

“What case?”

“A bank was robbed in Geneva, on the western edge of Illinois.”

“Isn’t there enough work in the cities? Pinkertons aren’t often seen on the frontier.”

“My Father negotiated the contract himself.”

“I’m not going to Geneva.” I said.

“That’s true. I will be at Geneva. You are going to Helena in Montana.”

Our train emerged from the exchange. Walls rattled as the track unhitched. We dropped to a lower level and clattered into the back of another train, connecting for the journey.

“I will do no such thing.” I said. “If Robert is in custody, my partner will need help.”

“The black one?”

“Ray. Yes.”

William walked to my desk. He thumbed through papers and stared out the window.

“You will go where I tell you” He said. “If you don’t like it, Ryker’s Island is waiting.”

Something caught his eye through the window. We were approaching an interchange. William crossed the room again and stood in the connecting doorway.

“As for your partner, you wouldn’t find him in Norwalk anyway.”

Breath squeezed out of my lungs like a bellows. The air pressure in my cabin dropped as the seal between our cars split open. William stepped back to his room. The platform under our cars rotated in separate directions. Our train split in two.

“Ray was captured by William Hunt and taken back south.”

I ran, hoping to get a hand on William before he lifted away. When I reached the door, my car was already bolted to a slum market on a train headed for Montana. This was William’s salute. He sent me to the wilds of the United States, against my will, tied to a barrio.

As an employee of the Pinkerton Agency, any damage my room sustained would be billed back to the Chicago office. I trashed car.

A crowd gathered to watch. They smiled and laughed, having a swell time. I hunched over with my hands on my knees. One of the onlookers made a joke of offering me a drink.

“Get back!” I said.

I leered at the mob and my eyes settled on a small man at the back. His face was obscured by tattoos, just like the person who sold Ray his counterfeit slave papers. Contraband dealers with tattoos like that are common on poorer trains. The peddlers look so much alike that, on rare occasions when police round them up to investigate a crime, it is a chore to tell them apart.

The crowd broke up. He was gone. The act of looking had caused him to disappear.

I sat on the floor of my broken room. There was nothing to do but read the case file.

The crime took place in Geneva. It was a thriving frontier town, home to five thousand people. Rich soil kept farmers in business. Deep coal mines brought new investors in a steady stream. Geneva attracted rail companies, pioneer families and adventure seekers.

The only people who weren’t welcome were slave traders. Geneva was the last free territory in the west.

Like all successful towns, its core businesses supported a mix of other activities. Geneva had a school, which was open to all children within its limits. Various shops, mills and warehouses were stocked and busy. Though it was sparsely attended, a modest theatre presented shows twice a week. It is a model of what can be achieved by hardy families.

No such progress would have been possible if not for the presence of a reliable bank. True to form for Geneva, its bank operated out of the same wooden building as it did when the first farmers came looking for credit over fifty years ago. It was a modest outfit but people could trust their money to its vault.

This was the sort of case the Pinkertons always did well. The old man respects the importance of a bank. If it was odd for him to come this far just to secure a contract, it was not at all unusual for him to help a bank get its money back.

On June 22nd of this year, just after six o’clock in the evening, the town was shutting down. Cattle herders brought their stock to market that day so a number of large deposits had been made. Only two clerks remained; Eugene Pearson and Grace Patton.

They were filing receipts when a knock on the door signalled one final customer to be served. Ms. Patton was closest but Eugene Pearson waved her away. She had a chronic respiratory illness and often suffered from fatigue.

Pearson opened the door and was pushed straight back by a man in grimy overalls. The intruder’s face was covered by a wide strip of torn denim and smears of black grease around the eyes. A second thief hurried in behind, dressed the same.

Pearson pedalled back. Patton screeched then heaved forward, wheezing for air. The first thief ran to the girl and held a hand over her mouth. As Eugene Pearson watched in a daze, the second thief cracked the butt of a pistol over his head.

They piled the employees into the vault and locked the door. Alone at the tills, the men collected twenty thousand dollars from the cattle transactions. They took their time to clean grease off their brows and don new outfits before leaving. The robbers melted into the evening bustle, escaping without incident.

Inside the vault, it was a desperate scene. Grace Patton tried to yell for help but could barely find enough breath to keep from passing out. Eugene Pearson slumbered for an hour. In that time, Ms. Patton struggled to her feet every few minutes, stepped over Pearson’s body on the floor, and hollered until she saw stars in her eyes.

None could hear her. No one came.

She gave up hope and retreated to a corner of the vault to endure the pain of her burning lungs. Finally, Eugene Pearson opened his eyes. He sat up and asked,

“Is it over?”

She nodded. Pearson shoved against the door three of four times. It was no use. With a grin, he snapped a finger as an idea came to mind. He opened a drawer filled with coins and withdrew a half dollar. Eugene Pearson then did an extraordinary thing.

He forced the narrow edge of the coin into the face of a screw. With great effort, he loosened it and moved on to all the others holding the lock in place. It broke apart. Pearson helped Grace Patton to her feet. They exited the vault and contacted police.

That was the story bank officials provided when they hired the Agency. The first thing William did was tear it to pieces.

Pinkertons view crime as a moral failure. The old man drills this into them from the moment they’re hired. Find the moral failing and you’ll find the culprit.

The only one who doesn’t subscribe to this dogma is Robert. He knows there is more to crime than can be contained in one grey haired Scotsman’s opinion about morality. William, on the other hand, is a true believer.

His first note on the Geneva file was on these lines:

The ordinary promptings of manhood should have induced some resistance. That an active man should not have shown even ordinary courage, not have made every effort to rescue a delicate girl, marks him as a base coward. Even if powerless to defend Miss Patton, Pearson could have raised an alarm. Short of that, he might have tried to close the vault door. Any of these simple actions surely would have thrown the criminals into disarray.

-Pinkerton, W.

William has a harsh view of manhood. The only thing Pearson would have done by intervening is gotten himself shot. Nevertheless, William’s suspicions would only deepen. His case file reads:

Prior to meeting bank President Henry Silby, I tested Pearson’s claim about the coin and lock. In Silby’s office, I tried to remove the screws holding a door handle in place. I was unable to move them. Silby entered as I strained with the loose change. Pearson is not telling the truth. I conveyed this certainty to Silby but he insists that Pearson’s loyalty is beyond doubt.

-Pinkerton, W.

The most infuriating part of dealing with a Pinkerton is how often they turn out to be right. Pearson could not have dismantled a bank vault with his half dollar. He was no victim.

William reported the findings to his father. The old man advised him to follow the Pearson trail but also ensure the client believed he was pursuing a new lead. This was unlike Pinkerton. I never heard of the Agency making any effort to placate a client in that way.

Doing as his father ordered, William interviewed potential witnesses at nearby stores and spoke with bank employees about the weeks before the heist. He never expected these efforts to generate useful leads.

The case broke when William visited Grace Patton, recovering at her parents’ home from respiratory attacks brought on by the incident. The house was small but well cared for, like Geneva itself. The young woman was swaddled under blankets in an airy parlour.

She described all the familiar facts of the case. Her dutiful mother stood watch to ensure the Chicago detective didn’t press too hard. As the interview came to a close, Grace asked her mother for a glass of water. Alone with William, she made an important comment. The case file reads:

Ms. Patton said there was “something strange” about the robbery. Three days before, Eugene Pearson opened an account for a salesman who passes through Geneva every few months. This man was not poor but in no position to make large deposits. Pearson gave him a box near those of the bank’s richest clients. The two spent a long time in the deposit room. “That is the part of the bank where robbers knew to look for the ranchers’ money.”

-Pinkerton, W.

William reviewed the bank’s records, never mentioning his findings to Mr. Silby. He didn’t want to raise the client’s ire by questioning Pearson’s integrity.

Among notes he took while scanning the records, William wrote the name of a man who opened an account with a mere fifty dollars. Deposit boxes located near his made thousands of dollars worth of transactions every week.

That man’s name was Newton Edwards. His deposit slip was signed by Eugene Pearson.

Pity the grifter whose name falls into the hands of a Pinkerton. Newton Edwards was on borrowed time from the moment Grace Patton agreed to speak with William.

Tracking the suspect was easy. William posed as a messenger delivering product samples to Edwards. He visited every hotel in Geneva, along with any saloon that had beds upstairs and any home advertizing a room to let.

His routine was the same at every stop. He leaned on clerks and grilled managers, claiming to know for a fact that Edwards stayed at each establishment. After two days of pestering, William caught the trail. The case file reads:

Wiltshire Rooming House. Night manager Elmore Hicks refused the samples saying Newton Edwards was no longer welcome. He boarded at the Wiltshire but was evicted on his last visit. Unregistered guests called on him late several times, one carrying a gun. Mr. Hicks did not know where to reach Edwards. He asked me to take two telegraphs, which arrived after the eviction. One was from the New Orleans police; Edwards’ wife declaring him missing. The second was a notice of delivery. A crate Edwards shipped to Montana was never collected.

-Pinkerton, W.

The trail ended with those telegraphs. William wanted me to pick it up in Montana.

The first telegraph wasn’t much help. Newton Edwards abandoned his wife to be part of the Geneva robbery. They had a home in New Orleans. That was the same city where Timothy Webster (RIP) first caught up with the Golden Circle. Trouble orbits New Orleans like a moon.

The delivery notice was more useful. The contents of that crate were important enough for Edwards to send it express. He didn’t think this part through. Express deliveries require a signature. The recipient refused to sign, probably because the crate was tied to the robbery.

This gave me an idea. I pushed the case file aside and walked through the wreckage of my cabin. Stepping into the slum beyond, I tried to find the man with tattoos on his face.

Through the fog left behind by factories and smelters, lit from within by sparks bouncing off welding stations and repair shops, bisected by causeways and churned by the occasional oil fire, one wasn’t encouraged to wander. I looked for a runner in the crowd.

Runners were akin to waiters in a tavern. People shouted at them, flashed money and pleaded for service. If you were in their good graces, there was no limit to what you could buy. If you fell afoul, the barrio became a dangerous place.

The runners had watched me kick my cabin to pieces along with everyone else. They had also seen me arrive with a Pinkerton. They would not be inclined to trust me. One of them laughed at the sight of me, recalling my tantrum.

“I need to have copies made of these documents.” I said.

I held the telegraphs in one hand. The runner waved me away.

I raised my other hand. The thousand dollars clenched in my fist was high enough for everyone to see.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

July, 1861

The seamstress sent one of her assistants to my hotel room. I asked for the large girl with thick hands who I’d seen in the shop’s back room. My corset needed to be tighter than any of the princesses from the showroom could have managed.

Women dress the way they do because they have other women in mind. Men, stupid brutes that they are, will never understand. They stamp their feet at the time it takes a woman to primp, all the while repeating that they look fine already. No woman would put such effort into appealing to a man’s taste.

The real audience is other women. Fashion is a way for us to speak to each other. No message has ever been delivered more quickly or clearly than the malice broadcast by wearing the same necklace as another woman at a party.

I bent over a chair. Tiny breaths of air leaked into my lungs as the girl bound the corset tight. My ribs bent. I felt blood vessels burst around my eyes. I didn’t mind. Makeup would cover the blemish.

Tonight, every woman would see how far I was prepared go. One woman, in particular, would learn how much I could take, how much she would have to do to break me.

She was the widowed wife of a State Department official, a southern belle who kept her lofty status afloat by throwing lavish soirees to mark every season in the social calendar. Her name was known to all who mattered in the capital: Rose Greenhow.

She and Washington were the same. As a city, Washington was the mud flat of world capitals. It was impossible to go anywhere without getting filthy. The White House was a majestic symbol but, marooned in dismal surroundings, it looked like a real estate investment gone bad.

In spite of this, Washington was the American capital. For as long as a great nation stood, the city would not be ignored.

Rose Greenhow reflected this same quality. Her husband tried to turn a crass Maryland chamber maid into a worldly snob. Southern roots run too deep. In conversation, she made a person feel as though they had said too much, even after saying nothing at all. It was impossible to trust her sincerity, yet equally impossible to avoid her company.

For all her disagreeable traits, she could not be ignored. If you had business in the capital, you made an appearance at the Greenhow functions.

I was half dressed when a knocked sounded at my door. It was her. The breach of etiquette left no room for doubt.

The seamstress girl escorted her into my bedchamber, voice wavering as she announced Mrs. Greenhow. I sent the girl home with a generous tip. Once we were alone, Rose reverted to plantation manners.

“I am un-inviting you Ms. Warne.” She said.

“Our friend, Senator Wilson, is expecting me tonight.”

“I will extend your regrets. Tonight’s fundraiser is beside the point, though. I want you to leave this city. Whatever invitation brought you to Washington, consider it revoked.”

Harry would have treasured this exchange. It was the sort of thing he told me to expect.

No one invited me to Washington. Chesapeake Bay was carved out of the earth. Thousands died in an explosion caused by Major Robert Anderson. Nothing could have stopped me from coming. I wanted to see Anderson hang for his crime and believed Harry Vinton could point me to him.

My first day was awful, a total embarrassment. I presented myself at Vinton’s office before sunrise. I left after the last intern turned out the lights, escorted by security from the premises. Harry had never even entered the building.

Harry has a door with his name on it but he does not work at an office. That was my first Washington lesson. As attache to the President, he treats the whole city like his office. Everyone’s desk is Harry’s desk.

The next morning, a court decision was expected out of New York. The ruling would help confirm that President Lincoln’s blockade of southern ports was legal under the Constitution. I cornered Harry Vinton at a press junket following the announcement.

“President Lincoln is pleased, naturally. He never doubted the court system in New York.” Harry said. “There is nothing illegal about the blockade.”

With a nod and a wink, he exited the scrum. He did not appear to notice me so I followed him as far as the lobby where a police detail surrounded me.

“Gentlemen, please. You would only hurt yourselves” He said. “Ms. Warne is a friend.”

I walked with him. That is the only way to speak with Harry; in motion.

“I don’t know where to find Major Anderson.” He said. “If I did, the President would already have dispatched the militia to . . .”

“ . . . to die or convert.” I said. “Anderson is building an army.”

“I realize that but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Harry slipped through the morning crowd and ducked down an alley. I raced to keep up, failing to notice at first that he had led me to a ladies’ boutique.

“There is a dinner tonight in honor of General McDowell. He has been awarded command of the Union Army.”

Two women started taking my measurements. I was appalled.

“Mr. Vinton, show some restraint. We will not be dining together. If you refuse to help, there is no reason for me to be in Washington at all.”

“Surely you don’t mean to leave.”

My outburst confused Harry. He had not expected me to be so ignorant.

“Kate.” He said. “I am helping you. You have more power than you realize.”

It took time for me to understand. Washington is not like other capitals.

Social hierarchies in places like Vienna and London come in layers. They are nurtured by generations of aristocrats whose elaborate shows of privilege set them apart from the low classes.

Nothing like that exists in America. Our aristocrats are all artificial.

In America, rich families are rich and nothing more. They crave the importance that their counterparts in Europe claim as a birthright. To fill this need, they barter in secrets and gossip.

Harry made me see that I could be a dangerous woman in Washington. My most terrible secrets were splashed on the headlines. The socialites could not threaten me but, as a Pinkerton operative, I could bring frightful problems to their doors.

On my first night, I learned what that meant. We attended the McDowell function. It was dour. The fineries and excess I had seen with Harry aboard the President’s train were muted by drab military decor. Before dinner, a fine southern gentleman offered me a glass of champagne for a toast. It was spiked with the same poison that sent me into the abyss at Harrisburg.

Everyone at the party knew. They wanted to see me reel out of my mind for the fun of it.

I drank the flute. My heart slowed. Each beat was an explosion. It felt like my blood turned to sand. I thought my chest might crack open.

Soon, the pain was replaced by lightness. I felt giddy.

The gazes saved me. I felt Washington’s elite watching me. A dark mood wiped away the drug’s happy oblivion.

We toasted the General.

“To victory.”

I placed the glass down as carefully as I could. With Harry at my arm, I scoured the crowd. He supported my weight when the drug’s effects were too strong. Only one other man approached to offer a hand. Harry thanked him but declined the help.

Together, we found the gentleman who gave me the tainted drink. He stood with Mrs. Rose O’Neal Greenhow. I bowed. Ten minutes later, I was passed out in my hotel room.

The same woman now stood by my bed, weeks later, un-inviting me from Washington. It was too late. Mrs. Greenhow had become a special project of mine after the General’s dinner.

I did what the Pinkertons taught me. I watched her. I camped in the green space outside her home, followed her minions as they ran errands and kept track of her guests and visitors.

The romance I uncovered, between her and Senator Henry Wilson of Massachusetts, was a scandal in the making. Mrs. Greenhow was a southern sympathizer with connections to the Confederate rebels. Senator Wilson was part of the Union committee on Military Affairs.

The greater point of interest for me was that Senator Wilson had been the only one at General McDowell’s dinner to offer me assistance. He disapproved of Rose’s little game with the poison flute. I used that opening to torture the woman.

Harry arranged for me to brief the Military Affairs committee on the plot to kill President Lincoln. These were closed caucus meetings to which Mrs. Greenhow was not invited.

At social functions, I allowed Senator Wilson to dine on my reputation. He impressed the other men in his circle by appearing to have close ties to an infamous public figure.

He liked me. It was clear as day.

This was a nightmare for Rose Greenhow. If her heart was invested in the affair, watching me steal moments with him would have been torture. If she was using the Senator to filter information about Union war plans, the damage was just as bad.

I wanted it to hurt. She was the sort of person I vowed as a girl never to become. She climbed a ladder that only existed in her mind, and did so by attaching herself to men.

After her visit to my hotel room, I told her to expect me at the fundraiser later that night. I had no plans to leave the city.

Washington dug into its pockets to support a new kind of hospital that would serve soldiers on the front line of the coming war. Under President Lincoln, the Union army would not deploy its full arsenal of weapons against the Confederates. A proposal to turn the north’s huge technological advantage to a humane use had gained traction in Congress.

One of the biggest wartime challenges faced by a modern army was clearing wounded soldiers off the battlefield. Men sometimes waited days before medical staff could move them to a safe location. By that time, their wounds were often mortal.

To address this problem, mobile hospitals were built using the same advances that powered the weapons President didn’t want to use. The hospitals were made up of one central hub, primarily for operations and extended treatment, and ten satellite units small enough to extract injured men from a warzone.

Both the operating hubs and smaller satellite units were mounted on pontoons made of industrial rubber. The pontoons were inflated by compressed steam, spiralling through support braces and escaping through holes underneath. This kept the surgical units level on uneven terrain. It also provided a low resistance propulsion system.

Hospital hubs moved slowly over large distances. Smaller satellites were more nimble, able to match the dizzying pace of battle. During a live fight, conveyors were attached to the satellites so that large numbers of soldiers could be whisked to the hub from any location.

People in the north were mad with optimism. None dared suggest that the southern rebels posed a big enough threat to justify using steam powered weapons. They were so confident, Union supporters talked about allowing the Confederates to use these mobile hospitals. Soon enough, everyone discovered that having an army and fighting a war were two different things.

While we were dining in Washington, Union and Confederate soldiers waited. Most citizens, disconnected from the reality of the war, thought of the conflict between north and south as something that ranged over wide stretches, from New York to Louisiana and everywhere in between. Maybe it will be at some point.

In those early days, the theatre of war spanned less than a hundred miles. The White House and the Confederate capital at Richmond were protected by armies camped between.

Both sides were eager to attack the enemy capital. Both were anxious to protect their own. They assembled within striking distance of each other but neither knew what to do next.

“You are as familiar with the rebels as any in this room.”

Senator Wilson was behind me. I turned expecting to find him holding court with a group of other statesmen. To my surprise, he was alone.

In the bustle of the event, he stood closer to me than would normally have been acceptable. The crowd was large tonight. There was little room.

A glistening light display suspended from the ballroom ceiling rotated above. Pure white light was flecked with shimmering colors, bathing the dinner tables, bandstand and dance floor. Flecks of shaved crystal fell from the display, catching and reflecting the light. It was like being underwater with diamonds floating all around.

“I am holding an advisors’ meeting tomorrow. Decisions will be made about how to proceed against the Confederacy. I should very much like to discuss their tactics with you.” He said. “Over breakfast, perhaps.”

A knowing grin crept into the corner of his mouth. I looked over his shoulder. Rose Greenhow stood beyond. This was my moment to shatter her.

I looked her in the eye, willing her to remember how she tried to shame me with tainted champagne. Instead, it was me who was forced to remember.

I thought about my ruined career, my worthless reputation. I remembered what Anderson said to me aboard his airship; that deep down I preferred the company of monsters. Most of all, I recalled that I had come to Washington in search of a criminal.

In the process, I stalked a civilian widow. I walked the halls of power and pretended to have business in them. I made it my purpose to bring another woman down. I lost my way.

Senator Wilson wasn’t offering to help me find Major Anderson. I knew what he was offering. It made me feel sick.

“Excuse me.” I said.

I brushed past, hurrying to leave the hall. Others turned to look. Senator Wilson was aghast at the public rebuke.

I didn’t care. I had to get out.

Reaching the bottom of the grand staircase, my eyes were locked on the front door. Again, I heard a voice behind.

“Miss Warne.” Rose said.

We were alone on the stairs. I was at the bottom. She stood halfway up. Without closing the gap, she pressed me for an explanation.

“Why did you do that? The Senator . . .”

I held a hand out to stop her from saying any more. One of my fingers shook.

“It doesn’t matter.” I said. “There’s no reason.”

She looked at me for what seemed a long time. In some ways, it was for the first time.

“You’re quite stunning in that dress.” She said.

Rose walked down the steps and joined me at the bottom. She took my arm in hers. I didn’t resist. We walked to the door.

“So we are not giving reasons for the things we do tonight.” She said. “In that case, there is no reason for me to tell you that General Gustave Beauregard has been assigned to lead the Confederate forces at Manassas. Yankees such as yourself know the area as Bull Run.”

Beauregard was the man Major Anderson vowed to capture after the destruction of Fort Sumter. How did she know my reason for being in Washington?

Naturally, she had traded one secret for another. I wondered how much it cost her to buy the truth. Who sold it to her?

Maybe it was Harry. I would never know for sure.

Rose helped me with my coat. She hailed a carriage from the executive stable.

“One of our hospital prototypes is travelling to Manassas.” She said. “Perhaps you would like to be part of its humanitarian mission to the south.”

*   *   *

Repository Note:

Here is an instance where the Pinkerton account does map onto the historic record. Rose Greenhow was a prominent figure in Washington circles during that period. Rumours of a romance with Senator Wilson, and its consequences during the opening stages of the war, appear in many source materials. For people who want to discredit and ignore the Pinkerton dossier, this creates a problem. At least some of the account is true. After winning a diplomatic row to reclaim this portfolio in 1956 then spending over fifty years sifting through the files, we cannot just sweep it under the carpet now that real discoveries are being made. I want to uncover as much material as possible before Justice shuts us down again.

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

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

July, 1861

This police wagon was different from the last. Between my first arrest for trespassing and my most recent arrest for kidnapping, my status had changed. I was no longer a petty nuisance. I was a dangerous offender. The wagon reflected this switch.

The big difference was size. This wagon was more spacious, which struck me as a bit ironic. I could stretch my legs. Three armed guards traveled with me, which was also new.

Chains bound my arms and legs to an iron ring bolted into the floor. This compounded the pain caused by both a ferocious beating at the hands of Norwalk police and William Hunt’s knife attack.

My equipment was in a bin underneath the bench. When I was taken into custody, officers dismantled the chassis from my arms and torso to keep as evidence. They didn’t check under my slacks.

I still had the winch. This was my glimmer of hope.

The piston I primed at Waring farm was still full of steam. I was counting on there being enough power left in it to lift the ring out of the floor. If so, I would have a few seconds to act before the guards got to me.

I had one more idea about getting to the bottom of Judge Terrence Mansfield’s blackmail, the Schulte murder, maybe everything. I wanted a final stab at piecing it all together. If I could get my hands on those tools before the guards knocked me senseless, I might be able to get out.

The severity of my injuries allowed me to spend a lot of time hunched over. I let out an occasional moan. The guards ignored me. None noticed me grind the carbide tip of the jackleg winch into a seam between planks under the ring.

I clutched at my chest with both hands as though experiencing some new agony. Standing up, I pressed all my weight down on the bit.

“Quiet there.” One guard said. “Sit down.”

The other two reached for clubs. Trying to look intimidated, I sat in a heap and leaned to one side for leverage. The wood cracked. I held my breath, pleading in my mind for the ring to come loose.

A booming noise stung the inside of my ear canal. The seam between planks yawned open. A fissure ran up the wall to the ceiling causing the whole wagon split in half.

The guards looked terrified. They were still gripping their clubs.

My half of the wagon fell away. The wall I leaned against crashed onto the street, carrying all the carriage’s momentum. My arms and legs came free from the shackles. I skimmed along the roadway, sitting bolt upright and screaming from the pit of my stomach like a newborn.

The wheels of nearby coaches spun close. Passengers on all sides yelled and pointed. I approached a bend in the road. A carriage was bearing down behind.

I threw myself forward and grabbed the box holding my gear. I jumped off the wall and landed on the crate. My face swung down and smacked the side. I rolled head over heels into the tables of a curb-side cafe.

I got to my feet. The act of trying to brush myself off raised a few guffaws. Mostly, I just smeared dirt and blood together on my clothes.

It would take police an hour to get word of the accident, talk to witnesses and make any progress in searching for me. That was ample time for me to reach the Stock Exchange where I would make my last attempt and finding the truth.

New York’s first Exchange on Wall Street was destroyed by fire so the outfit moved to a temporary space on Broad. There were plans in the works for a lavish new structure but the current building only stood out because so many people streamed through its doors all day long.

Inside, the Exchange was no more glamorous than a warehouse. Every adornment was stripped away to make room for the men crammed inside and the machines tracking daily action.

Tradable commodities in America each had a code. These codes were posted on a board made up of shutters the size of playing cards, which flipped over as prices fluctuated. The dense grid of numbers and codes was constantly changing. The board dominated every sightline. It was so vast, all four walls were covered, starting halfway up and reaching to the ceiling.

A cube in the middle of the trading floor was twenty feet in every dimension. Electric leads hung from the cube like hair. Those leads connected to a device inside that counted prices and returns for every product in the Union economy.

This was what I needed. I forced my way to the cube.

I had retrieved my switchbox, among other equipment, from the wreck. When I plugged it into leads on the cube, it flared in my hand. The volume of information would be similar to the telegraphs I intercepted on the Golden Circle case. My machine could handle the data.

I wanted to know if information stolen from Henry Schulte had been entered into the Exchange. One of the silent investors in Schulte’s slave hunting business was New York judge Terrence Mansfield. He presided over my trial and, more importantly, a legal challenge against President Lincoln’s blockade.

The raw data in Schulte’s account log could expose Judge Mansfield as a slave profiteer. That was why Hunt wanted it. He was trying to shape the power of the President.

Judge Mansfield already rendered his decision. He supported the President’s blockade. If his blackmailers made good on their threat, they would leave a trace here.

Traders nudged each other and pointed at me as punch cards fell from the switchbox. I shrugged as though I didn’t know what it was doing either. A floor monitor approached. He took one look at the cards accumulating at my feet and gestured for security.

The switchbox went still in my hands. A card emerged under the heading: Returns—T. Mansfield.

It was confirmed. The judge was exposed.

The damning information was entered earlier that same day from a remote location here in New York: the offices of Northern Central railway. That was the same company I was investigating for embezzlement when Kennedy arrested me.

I detached the switchbox. It was no great feat to disappear on the Stock Exchange floor. The price of coffee rose a quarter penny and, in the commotion, I was gone.

The route to Northern Central was no trouble to recall. I had been there many times.

There was no chance of getting past reception so I circled to the back. Offices were on the first two floors. Conference rooms and executive suites were on the third. The fourth was empty. I held the dragline caster and looked at the fourth floor windows.

It was a long way up but this was my best chance of getting into the building. Whoever sent the Schulte data to the Stock Exchange might still have been inside.

I wound up a few times then launched the sinker, hoping it would snag a fire escape. It smashed through a window.

I hurried to attach the dragline to the fastener on my knee. When the filament wire retracted, I tipped upside down and rose through the air. My feet took the window frame apart as I crashed into the room. I was still rising.

The caster was lodged in the beams behind a light fixture on the ceiling. I twisted my knees coming to a sudden stop, dangling above the floor. From there, I heard two men approach.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Be quiet.”

I knew those voices.

“The equipment is bought. It will be delivered on schedule. I’m done.”

The door opened. S. M. Felton and Superintendent John Kennedy walked in. They traced the damage from the window to the broken glass on the floor and finally to the light fixture. Kennedy’s jaw dropped.

“This is what I’m talking about.” Felton said. “We are never going to be rid of them.”

“If you had done your job, this would not be an issue.”

“I tossed one out of an airship. I sent this one to face a thousand telegraph machines.”

“Too clever by half, Felton. That’s always been your way.”

Kennedy circled beneath me. A smile spread over his face and he clapped his hands.

“Robert.” He said. “Let us show Mr. Felton what he ought to have done.”

Kennedy drew his pistol. He spent a moment taking careful aim then fired.

I raised my hands in front of my face. The ball passed between my fingers, skimmed off my check bone, and ripped through my right leg. It clattered into the dragline device.

I cried out. Kennedy cheered. The impact caused the device to jam, straining as it tried to retract the filament wire.

“We wanted the Pinkertons to be out of our way.” Kennedy said. “How hard was that?”

“Hunt makes it hard. He has to kill Lincoln himself. He only presses a judge over slave issues. He only steals from abolitionist towns. I’m surprised he accepted news of the Union attack from a woman.”

“Settle down.” Kennedy said. “It’s over now.”

I felt a burning heat near my knee, and then a shudder as the dragline pulled the filament free. It severed a wooden rafter from the ceiling and cut the screws holding the chandelier.

I fell, absorbing the impact in the shoulder to spare my leg. The rest landed on Kennedy.

My body throbbed all over. Kennedy was hurt but not seriously. He started pushing debris aside. The thought of him back on his feet was an outrage.

I lurched to a sitting position like a mummy rising from the crypt. Kennedy cast me a disbelieving glance. I hit his face, chest, arms. I even punched the floor. It was a wild flurry, completely out of control. When it was over, Kennedy stayed down.

Felton was paralyzed in horror. I must have been a ghastly sight.

I aimed the dragline at his chest. The device was ruined but he didn’t know.

“Northern Central has a dirigible.” I said. “You can fly it.”

“You need to go to a hospital, Robert.”

I didn’t feel all that bad. The fear of how much something might hurt was worse than the actual pain.

“No.” I said. “Let’s go have a look at that equipment you purchased.”

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

July, 1861

The town of Helena, in the Montana territory, was as far removed from the health and liveliness of Geneva as I could imagine. There were no businesses to anchor the community, no schools for the children. If there was a theatre, it was sure to be burlesque.

Of all the blights in Helena, the worst was the sight of mud spattered slaves tromping through their miserable lives. My thoughts turned to Ray. I could not let him disappear into this backwards world again.

I told myself to focus on the plan. That was the best way to help Ray.

After the bank robbery, Newton Edwards shipped a crate from Geneva to a woman named Norma Ellis in Helena. I checked the church registry. Ellis was her married name. She was born Norma Edwards, Newton’s sister.

Sticking to the plan, I visited to the local courier and paid to use his telegraph machine. I said that I had several messages to send, and expected to receive replies to them all. I would be spending a lot of time in their office over the coming days.

Prior to arriving in Helena, counterfeiters charged me a thousand dollars to prepare a set of documents. Some were intended for Norma Ellis. The rest were to help me rescue Ray.

If William Hunt tried to go south with Ray, he would need to prove his ownership. Otherwise, police down there could accuse him of trafficking in free men from the north and take Ray away. Not that Ray would be freed under those circumstances. He would be resold to a new owner. Hunt, however, would end up with nothing.

Knowing this, I had the tattoo faces create a set of false papers declaring me to be Ray’s owner just like before. They also drafted a legal petition claiming that my slave had been stolen and threatening to sue any trader that profited from my property.

I used the Helena courier to telegraph these petitions to every major slave auction house in the south. It was the sort of claim southerners took seriously. If Hunt tried to reintegrate Ray into the society of slaves, I stood a decent chance of finding out where they were.

My first few days in Helena were spent at the telegraph machine. I lost track of how many I sent. Every few hours, I asked to look through my old messages and read every new transmission received by their office.

This was part of the ruse. Being an annoyance made it excusable, even expected, when I ventured into secure areas of the courier depot that were supposed to be off limits.

I saw that the express delivery from Geneva was still unclaimed. It had to be the money. I was sure of it. Newton Edwards would have wanted to get the loot away as fast as possible.

He trusted his sister enough to have her hold the cash. Living in Helena, she was desperate enough to agree. What tripped them up was the need for her to sign for stolen goods.

The fastest way for me to get back on Newton Edwards’ trail was to force Norma to do whatever her brother originally asked. She knew where Newton was and would lead me right to him but, first, she had to accept the delivery.

This was the sort of moment that made it half tolerable to be a Pinkerton. It was easier to lie when it was for the Agency.

I visited Mrs. Ellis. The house was so run down that the knocker almost fell off in my hand. Norma answered. Her finger nails were black with dirt, though I could see no signs of a garden on the property. This was a life spent in true squalor.

Time spent at the courier depot showed me how to dress like one of its staffers. I handed her a notice advising that, if she did not claim the Geneva delivery within 24 hours, the crate would be confiscated. It never occurred to her that it was all fake.

To make the swindle cut deeper, I made sure that another paper found its way into her hands. It was little more than a scrap. All it showed was the watermark of New Orleans Police and a subject header with Newton Edwards’ name. The counterfeiters had lifted it from the missing person notice. Norma Ellis would assume the law was closing in.

She reacted the way I hoped. The next morning, she rushed to the courier office and sent a telegram, emphasizing to the teller that it was an emergency.

I was there, like always, surrounded by a mountain of paper. Responses to my petition had been flowing in for days. When the reply to Norma Ellis’ telegraph arrived, I was reading through incoming messages. I saw what I needed:

Northern Central # 47-A–21. Forward package. Thomas Duncan. Manassas, Virginia.

There were two men at the Geneva robbery. Newton Edwards was one. Thomas Duncan must have been the other. They fled to the trains after the heist. That was smart.

I needed to get back on the rail network in a hurry if I hoped to intercept Edwards and Duncan on their way to Virginia. I swept the telegraph messages aside and called for the clerk to issue me a bill. I paid my tab and left.

In my rush, I almost forgot to bring the one transmission that mattered out of all the pointless telegraphs I sent and received. It arrived the previous day:

Sir—Thank you for contacting us. Your property is on record at our auction house. Please speak to our legal department to pursue your petition.

-Heritage Estate Brokerage—Shreveport, Louisiana

Ray was in Louisiana. Edwards and Duncan were going to Virginia.

I mulled this over a glass of moonshine in a dingy saloon on a train connecting with the Northern Central line. I had no trouble locating 47-A–21 but found it impossible to justify pursuing these men any further.

I had no real allegiance to William or the Pinkerton brood. Let them try to send me back to Ryker’s Island. If I didn’t reach Ray soon, I never would.

A pair of counterfeiters approached. I had spent so much money that now they came looking for me now. They were everywhere.

I had asked these two to find out which car Edwards and Duncan rented on the train to Virginia. I also ordered a draft legal document that I could send to Shreveport demanding to know the whereabouts of my slave.

“Two thousand.” One of the dealers said.

It was more than any of the others charged. I had seven hundred dollars left.

“Be reasonable.” I said.

The second man tapped his partner’s shoulder. I could never tell which of these traders I had dealt with face to face. The effect of the tattoos was so confusing. I felt like maybe I had seen him before. The one in charge dismissed him with a wave.

“Two thousand.” He said.

“Take the seven hundred.” I insisted.

Our negotiation ended. They turned without another word.

I leapt from my chair and grabbed the one who set the price. The second twisted my arm and pressed me back down on the table. There was nothing to be gained by fighting with them. I was on my own again.

The saloon operator asked me to leave. Other customers thought I might be police. He didn’t want any trouble.

I reached into my pocket for money to pay for my drink. I found the stub of a train ticket that did not belong to me. Train 47-A–21, Cabin D–4.

I did know that man. He helped set Ray free on the trip to Philadelphia.

I was closing in on Edwards and Duncan but no nearer to pulling Ray out of the south. If I went to Shreveport, I could find him. If I went right away, there might be time.

We connected with Northern Central. A porter led me to the car marked on my stub. The hall was packed with people. They crowded around an open cabin door: D–4.

I shoved past the jostling mass and stepped into the room. A man was on the floor, his back against the wall. The front of his shirt was stained with blood from a gunshot.

“You must be Newton Edwards.” I said.

“Are you a doctor?” The man asked.

“No. I’m a Pinkerton.”

“Oh God.” The man looked like he had just accepted he was going to die. In desperation, he stammered on. “You have to help me. Okay? It was a con. Duncan never wanted the money. Look out the window. He paid for some sort of machine.”

Up ahead, in a section reserved for factories and heavy industry, I saw a man hang over the side of the train to inspect straps that held a massive vehicle in place. It looked like many machines rolled into one.

I assumed that man was Thomas Duncan. He looked back at the window. It was one of the baseball players from the Golden Circle.

“What did you get yourself into, Edwards?”

“I wanted a new start. That’s all. I trusted Duncan.” He said. “Help me.”

Every second I spent with this man was a second I stole from Ray. William sent me to find Newton Edwards. Here he was. Whatever connection existed between the Geneva robbery and the Golden Circle, I didn’t care. I took a piece of paper from the desk and wrote a note:

Newton Edwards. Shot dead by Thomas Duncan. Geneva bank robbery. Accomplices at large.

-Ernie Stark, Pinkerton Detective Agency

I slid it into Edwards’ jacket. His legs shook and he complained of feeling cold. I left to find a train for Louisiana.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

July, 1861

Felton guided the airship down the coast. Winds off the Atlantic jostled us as we descended toward Virginia.

“You were right.” Felton said.

I pulled a face plate off the pilot console to examine the controls behind. There wasn’t anything complicated about keeping the dirigible afloat.

“What was I right about?”

“The war won’t end until the north shares its technology.”

I made that comment at a meeting in Philadelphia. Papa and I visited Felton’s office with Kate Warne to discuss the threat of sabotage against PWB railway. Felton was already in league with Kennedy at that point.

They embezzled funds for rebels in the south. They tried to have the President killed. Timothy Webster died. Kate was assaulted. I lost Stark at Ryker’s Island. Ray was captured by William Hunt. It was all because of them.

“Just keep heading south.” I said.

I was reluctant to attach my switchbox to the controls. There was no question that it could maintain the airship’s speed and altitude but, after I left, the ship would crash.

That was why I hesitated. I didn’t want to lose the switchbox.

“My engineers stamped a plate into the switches before lending it to your father. I couldn’t bear to destroy it.” Felton said.

“I don’t want to destroy it either.”

“Then let me turn this ship around, Robert. You don’t know what’s about to happen.”

I showed him the mining explosives and detonator.

“Your little conspiracy is about to go up in smoke.”

Felton trembled. He was caught between laughing and yelling.

“You have to listen. The Union is planning a surprise attack but we have a person in Washington. Do you understand? We know they are coming. That bomb is nothing. The trench cutter will lay waste to an entire army. Look at yourself. We must go back.”

I could barely stand on my septic leg. The pistol wound had stopped bleeding, which was good, but I was weak. I was fairly sure I could poke a finger through the gash my neck.

It was a mess. I hated the thought of Felton being right.

The switchbox was in place. I pushed Felton away from the controls. The airship dipped at first, then corrected its bearing and continued on course.

“You can leave now.”

With the dragline pointed at his back, I forced him down to the belly of the ship. I handed him a parachute and opened the drop portal. He pressed into the straps, took a last look back at me and jumped.

I didn’t see whether he landed safely. It made no difference.

In the fields below, the Union army marched toward Bull Run. They were headed into a trap. President Lincoln did not want to use modern weapons against the south. His enemies had no such reluctance. Whatever nightmare Felton, Kennedy and William Hunt dreamed up, fifty thousand of Union soldiers were about to face it unaware.

Felton was right. There was little chance of me stopping his machine with one pack of explosives. I might do enough damage for the Union army to survive, though. I could win them time to regroup. There was value in that.

I brought the airship down low. The switchbox held us steady. I saw the trench cutter in the distance and was struck by its power, by the ingenuity of the thing.

I climbed into the parachute. Feeling guilty, more than I ever had lying to my father, I watched the switchbox undulate on the pilot seat. I jumped from the portal into a battlefield.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

July, 1861

When Robert fell from the dirigible, I thought I was hallucinating. Trapped between two advancing armies, helpless in a pontoon hospital with no weapons, I could not imagine the situation getting worse. Robert always showed me something new.

What a sentimental moron I had been, trusting Rose Greenhow. She called this a humanitarian mission. It was going to be a massacre.

The Union army set its sights on Richmond. President Lincoln and his advisors planned a sneak attack to cut the heart out of the Confederate cause. General McDowell committed a huge force to the attack, sending fifty thousand men. It was more than double the rebel contingent.

To repel the assault, General Beauregard assembled rebel forces in front of a railway junction at Manassas. Three rail companies were served by the interchange. Major southern cities would be cut off from the rest of the country if Union forces shut it down.

Beauregard’s position also allowed him to block the most direct routes through Manassas toward Richmond. Union troops had to cross rolling terrain, which would slow their advance and expose them to the heavy gun. If they pressed through that bombardment, the Union force would then traverse a river before engaging rebels on the other side. Beauregard was well placed.

Despite these advantages, the size of the Union force should have been enough to guarantee victory. Soldiers had no reason to doubt the certainty of their success as they advanced toward the river.

I had a view of the terrain from inside the hospital hub, which idled in a flatland on the Confederate side of the river. Boosters from Washington made good on their promise to recommend the mobile hospital to both armies. We were well behind rebel lines when the Union charge began.

I watched the Confederates manoeuvre their machine into position. This much was certain: the Union army was going to be wiped out.

Echoes of cannon fire rolled across Bull Run. A ferryboat sailor who volunteered to pilot the hospital hub on its maiden voyage panicked.

He cranked the throttle and pressed too much steam through the pontoons holding us in place. This mistake was aggravated when he tried to turn our vessel around by extending the wing flaps before we started moving.

The hospital jumped off the ground, titled to one side and spun into a cluster of trees. Men and women from the Greenhow fundraiser screamed and held onto each other. I rushed to the loading bay and jumped out to see if there was some way to get us moving again.

From ground level, I noticed that the Confederate machine was hidden from Union view behind a ridge between rail platforms leading to the Manassas interchange. The ridge sloped down in the direction of the river and the advancing army.

Blades of a wind turbine at the heart of the machine were so broad they could have doubled as sails on a schooner. At first, these blades fanned out like petals but when the weapon was put to use, their tips lifted to form a cone. Four steam engines powered the blades. Ten iron cross pieces were welded into the foundation of the rail platforms to hold the thing in place.

The blades started to spin. The cone pulled back from the ridge as its narrow front end pointed down at a sharp angle. It looked like the weapon was taking aim at the earth.

The engines shook. Support pieces rattled against the train platforms. The blades gained incredible speed. Finally, out of the tip of the cone, a vortex of twisted air emerged.

It warbled, holding its shape like a silken cocoon. As the vortex grew it became easier for the weapon’s operators to control. The dervish of steam and air held steady for a moment over the ridge then plunged into the ground.

Dirt and rocks belched out the back end of the turbine. The machine was tunnelling under Bull Run.

Confederate troops waited. The vortex widened. The hole was large enough for soldiers to march through, two by two. They disappear under the ridge.

Union forces far in the distance tried to flank Confederate positions. They did not see the trenches manifest, as if out of thin air, in the plains ahead of their advance. Those trenches soon filled with rebel troops, marching underground, ready to ambush their attackers.

The machine was safe behind the ridge. Its operators countered every Union move. There was nowhere for the northern troops to turn. Fresh trenches, bursting with enemy infantry, blocked every route.

The scene was alarming enough. The sight of Robert falling out of his dirigible, coasting down to the turbine machine in a parachute, was almost beyond belief.

Robert collapsed onto the ground near one of the support beams. My view was obscured by trees and distance but he looked injured.

Rebel troops surrounded him. They opted not to shoot him at first because he wasn’t a Union soldier. They didn’t seem to know what to do with him.

Their indecision would not last. Eventually, they would just kill him and be done with it.

I ran to one of the hospital’s satellite ships. The iron weave conveyor connecting this craft to the larger hub would surely be long enough for me to reach Robert.

The controls inside were no more sophisticated than a railway interceptor. Pontoon supports inflated in seconds. I eased the throttle down. Thin jets of steam lifted the satellite off the ground and pushed it forward.

As I picked up speed, I raised the wing flaps. The vehicle’s front end tipped down. I pressed the throttle to its limit. The satellite streaked toward Manassas junction.

Like with Robert, the soldiers didn’t know what to do with me. So far as they knew, the satellite was part of a hospital. They weren’t supposed to shoot at hospitals.

I circled behind the rail platform for cover and brought the satellite down. Thinking I was a doctor, the troops back away and allowed me to approach.

Robert was almost dead. He had lost a lot of blood and was barely breathing. He held a detonator in his hand and an explosive charge was attached to a piston on his leg. What on earth was he doing? I tossed the equipment aside and called to one of the rebels.

“Help me with him.”

In the confusion, he did as I asked. I strapped Robert to a gurney, tried to ignore the extreme injuries all over his body and prepared to leave.

Bombs started falling from the sky. The shock of the first explosion woke Robert from his stupor. He looked out the satellite’s wind screen, wincing in pain as he craned his neck.

We looked at each other. He did not seem shocked to see me.

“Did I detonate that?”

“No.” I said. “It has to be Anderson.”

High above the battleground, an airship approached. I knew it on sight, even from a long way off. It was the bomber from rogue commander Robert Anderson’s stolen flagship, the USS Cumberland. The bomber was attacking the Confederate machine.

At Chesapeake Bay, Anderson vowed to show all of America that steam weapons would inevitably enter the war. Anderson believed he was doing what the President would not; fighting with the best weapons available.

Heavy ordinance fell near the machine but failed to deliver a critical strike. My satellite vehicle slid backward. The conveyor was pulled taut. The hospital hub cleared the tree line and was moving away from Manassas, dragging us on its tether.

One of the weapon’s engines broke apart and the vortex jerked out of alignment when the next bomb hit. Anderson’s crew had dropped its altitude and was now hitting the mark. Confederate soldiers charging to fill the trenches were buried alive.

The satellite pressed against the rail platform. If I let Anderson’s men finish their raid, the Union army might win this battle. All I had to do was let the hospital hub pull me clear.

I tried to rationalize letting Anderson flatten the Confederate machine. He could be tried for the atrocity at Chesapeake Bay after the fight here was over.

By that time, he would be the hero of Bull Run. Newspapers would make him a god. Did I believe that President Lincoln had the courage to prosecute a man many would call the saviour of his Union? What might Harry Vinton advise him to do?

I filled the pontoons with steam and lifted the satellite off the ground. As the hospital hub moved further away, the iron weave conveyor pulled harder on the ship’s back end. I pressed the throttle down, little by little, to compensate and hold us steady.

The satellite shook. Its steel frame groaned under a pressure it had never been subjected to before. Controls rattled in my hand.

“Kate, what are you doing?” Robert said.

“Just hold on.”

“Hold on to what?”

I cut the power and let all the steam burst out at once. The satellite shot straight up. With the resistance gone, tension on the tether released and whipped our vehicle like a sling.

I put all my weight on the lever to hold the wing flaps down. We rose with so much speed that I could not say for certain whether I had the ship under control.

The Cumberland bomber came into view. I fought the flaps, trying to line us up with the bomber’s broadside undercarriage. When our trajectory was as close to dead on as I could manage, I locked the wings in place and threw myself onto the gurney with Robert.

The back hatch opened and we slid out on the conveyor. We rode the tether, upside down, from over a hundred feet in the air.

The sight of thousands of men killing each other on the ground rose toward us. I had no appetite for that scene so I turned to watch the satellite finish its arc.

I knew it what it would mean for Union soldiers. Many more would die because Anderson’s bomber was knocked out of the fight. Some of those deaths, maybe all of them, would be my fault.

Nevertheless, I felt such happiness when the satellite smashed into the bomber. Flaming pieces of the airship lit the sky.

I found a crank on the side of the gurney and wound it with all my strength. The grinding noise was deafening. Sparks flew into my mouth. We slowed down.

The tether went slack as we hit bottom. The satellite’s smouldering hull landed at a safe distance. I pounded on a door at the hospital hub’s loading dock. One of the aristocrats let us in. The ferryboat driver saved them.

Robert was lifted onto a triage table where nurses started the long process of putting his body back together. I wanted to stay but the wreck of Cumberland’s bomber was nearby. I had to know whether Anderson was on board.

I stepped toward the dock. Robert called to me from triage.

“How was Washington?”

I laughed. What a thing to say.

“Fine, thanks. Did you ever find out who killed that old man?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Your father will be happy.”

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

August, 1861

The Union suffered a humiliating defeat at Bull Run. General Beauregard was hailed as the first hero of the Confederacy and, for the first time, talk throughout the nation turned to the question of whether the south might win this war. I was not happy.

Robert was alive, though. My reckless, infuriating boy was spared from the carnage in Virginia. For that, I was grateful.

I was also troubled by the files I read. My heart was heavy with concern.

Ernie Stark’s conduct was callous to the point of shocking even me. Kate Warne travelled in Washington circles that had nothing to do with solving crimes. She contributed to the Union defeat by attacking the Cumberland airship. Robert was arrested again. He stood a good chance of being acquitted of kidnapping but he fled police custody and beat Superintendent Kennedy half to death. I did not trust Byron Hayes to prepare an effective defence.

The most disturbing part of all was that Robert had been right. I fought him at every juncture but, in the end, only he saw the whole picture.

John Kennedy tried to destroy our Agency. His aim was to keep us out of the way while he, Felton and William Hunt plotted their mischief against the Union.

The culprit was in front of me the whole time. It was Kennedy.

Where does this leave us? President Lincoln is still waiting for my answer.

With everything that has happened, my decision is easy. There is only one way for me to keep my son out of prison, to keep Kate Warne from being accused of treason, to defuse the scandal of Stark’s behaviour.

I will sweep it away by claiming we acted on behalf of the government. If President Lincoln wants us to make espionage our business, I will allow him to pay us for the service. We have the necessary skill set after all. In time, our clients will find that we are all the more useful for being tied to the most powerful man on earth.

It was comforting to make this choice and put it behind me. I should not have been so severe in judging that naive Dundee cooper who lives in my memory. I might even choose to pay more attention when he speaks up from my past.

That simple man could have helped me through these troubles. He would have reminded me that, in this world, feeling lost is not always the same as losing your way.

“I state my general idea of this war to be that we have the greater numbers, and the enemy has the greater facility of concentrating forces upon points of collision. We will fail unless we can find some way of making our advantage an over-match for his. That can only be done by menacing him with superior forces at different points, at the same time, so that we can safely attack.”

- Abraham Lincoln, January 1862

*   *   *

Repository Note:

I did not solicit the letter from New Carthage. Its arrival has sparked a heated debate among senior managers over whether I should be allowed to visit the offshore Republic to discuss Pinkerton’s materials. The man who contacted me is believed to be the financier who challenged Justice in international court. Why he did so is not clear. I would like to ask him. At the end of the civil war, the betrayal that led to Timothy Webster’s execution and stained the legacy of President Lincoln, also led to the creation of a Republic where slaves could find true freedom. Neither the Confederate territories nor the Union states would partition their land so a floating annex was constructed. A new nation was built on America’s shore, extending a hundred miles into the Atlantic Ocean and spanning from Canada to the Carolinas: New Carthage. The Pinkerton papers were held there until 1956. Their release has created so much controversy. I am eager to travel to New Carthage and find out why.

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