The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

by David Luchuk

  * * *

  Ernie Stark

  February, 1861

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

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

  Not the slaves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I was among gentlemen. I should have guessed.

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

  Slaves worked. The rest loafed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Hunt watched too. We were the only ones.

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

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

  “Get rid of the body.” Saul said.

  Pudding recoiled.

  “The hell I will.”

  “You’ll do it, by God, or . . .”

  “I’ll do it.” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes.” I answered.

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

  “Yes.”

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

  “Yes.”

  Without another word, the question was dropped.

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

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

  * * *

  Repository Note:

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

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

  Allan Pinkerton, Principal

  April, 1861

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

  Ernie Stark

  February, 1861

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Enough’s enough, boys.”

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

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

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

  “Get a message to dispatch . . .”

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

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

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

  “Hurry up!”

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

  “You go first. Do it fast.” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

  The slave and I stepped out when the gunfire stopped.

  “Follow me.” He said.

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

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

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

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

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

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