by David Luchuk
Vinton took an envelope from his coat. It held a Presidential seal.
“There has been an incident, Mr. Pinkerton. Rebel positions have been wiped out at Charleston, the city once protected by Fort Sumter. No soldier was spared. No gun left standing.”
“You said the President would not authorize the use of such force.”
“The attack was not carried out by Union regulars.” Vinton said. “Hundreds of notices were left behind, offering amnesty to soldiers who walk away from the Confederate cause.”
“Major Anderson?” I said.
“They also offer amnesty to those who walk away from the Union. He is mounting a private army. Dozens have deserted already.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“That is what the President wants you to find out.”
Vinton proposed sending Kate Warne. This came as no surprise.
Ms. Warne had not been to the Agency office since returning from the Golden Circle assignment. She was burned and injured in the fight with William Hunt. She needed time to rehabilitate. When newspaper reports about her emerged, everything changed.
She would not contact me. She never spoke about the stories or her trouble remembering the events at Harrisburg. I tried to find a case to launch her back into action. I had no success until now.
Kate Warne could do the job Vinton proposed. However, I was reluctant to become embroiled in military matters.
“All will be lost if Anderson uses the weapons we are trying to keep out of this conflict.” Vinton said. “We want to prevent a total war. You said the President could count on you.”
“He can.” I said. “If I send Kate Warne, how can we know that Charleston won’t come under attack again? It would be unsafe.”
“She won’t be going there. Anderson vowed two things at Fort Sumter. Charleston was one. Capturing Gustave Beauregard was the other. Beauregard is expected to fight the blockade at Chesapeake Bay. If Anderson is alive, Kate will find him there.”
“What about Judge Mansfield?” I said. “Surely, we can be of more help on that front.”
“You have an agent at Ryker’s Island pressing William Bucholz?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are already active on that front.”
Robert was in the field. I had no way to warn him that the Schulte investigation carried so much weight and that our enemies were closing ranks around us.
* * *
Repository Note:
It is no longer reasonable for me to hope that the controversy created by this material will defuse itself as more documents are uncovered. Serious questions must now be asked. The reference to Timothy Webster can be viewed as an anomaly. The same is true of Pinkerton’s description of Abraham Lincoln and the question of slavery. At this stage, however, we have an obligation to determine whether the papers are accurate and, if they are, how they were kept out of the historic record for so long. A century and a half is a long time to wait for these revelations. Could it be true that President Lincoln balked at using the most destructive weapons in the war? Was Robert Anderson a renegade deserter as suggested in this account? It is hard to see how any of this can be reconciled with the consensus history of America.
- Diane Larimer, Chief Archivist—United States Library of Congress
* * *
Kate Warne
June, 1861
Sailors are no worse than the others. Men all have the same eyes.
I sailed from Baltimore aboard USS Cumberland. The boat had seen action in Europe, Africa and Mexico over thirty years of service. She had once been a sailing frigate with 52 guns, a formidable warship. With new propulsion and weapons technology, in more recent years, she was now vastly upgraded.
Cumberland was half in the old world, half in the new. The wooden hull was intact but masts and sails had come down to make room for better equipment.
The most obvious change was above deck. The bow, stretching forward from empty footings around the defunct sail mast, carried an iron platform for two dirigible airships. One was a long range striker. It could soar above cannons on the ground and deliver heavy ordinance on wide bombing runs. The other had no strike capability. It was for propulsion.
That dirigible was fixed to Cumberland by high tension wires at starboard and port. It could reach heights of 5,000 feet or more. At its desired altitude, the airship extended mechanized arms that dropped sails into trade winds.
Pulled forward by atmospheric currents, Cumberland could outrun any vessel that relied on conventional sails or engines. She lacked maneuverability, which was a drawback. With sails extended, the boat gained so much momentum that deep water rudders were used to keep her from flying away.
Cumberland’s mission was to enforce President Lincoln’s blockade. Commanders were happy to trade agility for speed. At Chesapeake Bay, she would seize nimble merchant boats arriving from Europe and beyond. If Cumberland entered tight quarters within the Bay itself, her other innovations would come into play.
The blockade would not create immediate hardship for the South. With miles of coastline and countless inlets to ensure a flow of black market goods, the Confederate economy would not suffer. Where the blockade was supposed to hurt was in the import of munitions. These would have to land at larger ports.
So long as the Union blocked these shipments, the war could be contained. This is what President Lincoln wanted.
If possible, he also wanted to secure key harbors housing shipyards or serving as gateways to important cities. Chesapeake Bay was one such port.
Hampton Roads shipyard was on its shore and Chesapeake provided a waterway to the Union capital at Washington and the Confederate stronghold of Richmond. Both sides wanted to control it.
On the Cumberland, I was no better than a stowaway. It was preferred that I stay in my cabin.
Robert would compare the ship to a machine. He would say that, someday soon, every function performed by men would be automated and a boat this size could be operated by a handful instead of a hundred. For now, men were its moving parts.
I ought not to have said what I did about the eyes of men. Robert is different. I don’t see pity, revulsion and desire in his eyes.
Ginny Higgs told me that Robert was troubled when my name got dragged back into the sewer during his trial. Robert is the only person to ever get down in that sewer with me. It didn’t bother me one bit.
I wonder how Ginny knew those things about him. I must remember to ask.
Three whistles sounded on deck. Sailors stopped loading bombs into the long range striker and turned their attention to equipment that needed to be strapped down. A fourth whistle blew, longer than the first three together.
The airship overhead pulled back its sails. The Cumberland lost all her heady speed at once. I pitched forward into the window of my cabin. Sailors below had expected just such a thing. I felt a rage in my gut, seeing the men laugh at me.
Chesapeake Bay came into view. Its quays, gun placements, shipyard and river tributaries were hidden behind spits of land that jutted into the ocean. There was only a narrow mouth for ships to cross. It was a chaotic scene. The blockade had created a melee on the water.
I retrieved my viewport goggles. These were smaller versions of the huge lenses I used on the PWB dirigible to find Lincoln’s train en route to Harrisburg. Glass pieces of varying size and thickness shifted into the line of sight. With some practice, objects in the distance could be captured, brought into focus then enhanced.
I watched ships do battle around Chesapeake Bay. It reminded me of bathing in the tub as a child. Cups and sponges were boats and islands and sea creatures in my imagination. Sooner or later, they met their doom as I slapped at the water and laid waste to all.
That was Chesapeake Bay. There were as many ships racing toward the narrow mou
th as trying to punch out from inside. Slow moving tall ships, with their obsolete sails brilliant white against powder smoke, crossed hulking steamers and blockade runners skimming low. The water roiled with cannon balls missing their targets. Cumberland plowed into this jumble and became a target for Confederate warships.
The rebel fleet looked like it was bolted together from tugs and spare cannons. Three steamers veered toward us, knocking themselves askew with each blast of their guns.
Cumberland’s high altitude dirigible settled back onto the platform. Sailors hurried to chain it in place so the bomber could be released. We were vulnerable during the switch.
Confederate boats wasted ammunition firing out of range. I could track how much time we had by watching the splashes get closer. A cannonball skipped into our hull just as the bomber lifted off. Cumberland was free to fight back.
Air is a boat’s enemy. A pocket of air, rising from underneath, can send even a sturdy ship to the bottom. Rebel boats were far from sturdy.
Pipes beneath the Cumberland’s hull belched. I felt the ship lift as a ring of densely packed air bubbles radiated from below us. The ring expanded into a wide pocket rising to the surface. Two rebel steamers tipped over in the void. The ocean could not hold them.
The third cut wide to avoid this burst. Doing so moved it into the bomber’s line of fire.
The dirigible’s operators released pressurized canisters that exploded before reaching sea level. Decks were strafed. Masts fell. Crewmen were injured in such numbers that boats became inoperable. This cleared a path for Cumberland to the mouth of Chesapeake Bay.
An officer knocked at my cabin. I opened the door and took three paces back. No man could catch me by surprise from that distance. I felt the bulk of a single-shot pistol in my boot. It settled my nerves.
Pinkertons frowned on the use of such weapons. I no longer shared those reservations. Not since Harrisburg.
“It is time, detective.” He said. “Would you not prefer we take you directly to shore?”
“Quite sure, thank you. I will be ready.”
Officers on the Cumberland had been briefed on the search for Anderson, my reason for being at Chesapeake Bay. They ought to have understood that the assignment called for an element of surprise. It would do no good to be seen climbing off a Union warship.
This would be my first case since Robert and I saved President Lincoln. Mr. Pinkerton told anyone who would listen that I had refused a series of assignments after coming home. The truth is that no client would let the Agency to put me on their file.
Mr. Pinkerton was happy to offer me the Anderson case. I took it just to get away.
I emptied equipment from my locker. The iron lung, blast vest and explosive charges each used a separate steam canister. Before climbing into the wooden box I intended to blow up, I made sure the kit was in order.
The Cumberland set its sights on a blockade runner approaching from the ocean. A row of corkscrewing torpedoes was mounted on our port side. Fired in a tight pattern, these would attach to an enemy hull without grinding it to bits. Cables trailing behind could then be used to draw it in under control.
The boat kicked as torpedoes were launched. I heard a cheer that left little doubt we had caught the smaller vessel.
I put the blast vest on first. It ran from my thighs, past vials on my belt and over my chest. It was too tight to be comfortable. The protection it provided when inflated, and a thin pocket of air separated my body from whatever might crash into me, was a comfort.
I pulled the iron lung’s headpiece down to my shoulders. It was heavier than I expected. The neck guard slid over the lip of the blast vest. I was covered.
Outside, sailors from the Cumberland boarded the captured vessel and unloaded its cargo. Under normal circumstances, the ship would have been stripped then sunk. In this case, one of the crates was carried to the back of the ship while the rest were inspected.
The breathing apparatus locked into the neck guard. An air filter cupped over my nose and mouth. Goggles slid over my eyes. Ambient air was sucked out. For a moment, I was suffocating. Once the seal was established, oxygen filled the head piece. The iron lung could keep me alive for hours.
The Lieutenant entered my room again and led me down to the deck. The crate had been emptied, its goods replaced with ballast and lined with canvas cushioning.
I climbed inside. The lid was fastened. With me laying flat among the canvas rolls, the crate was carried back to the seized vessel.
I got to work, attaching explosive vials to the corners of the crate from inside. Cumberland’s officers let the blockade runner proceed to Chesapeake Bay after the mock inspection. Merchants would be surprised but happy not to lose their ship.
For me, inside the crate, some painful crashing about was expected. This was the most dangerous part of the mission. I had no control.
Cumberland’s bomber was to continue firing into the jumble of boats, trying to make it look like they were clearing a path for the mother ship. In fact, this would provide passage for the blockade runner. Once I was on shore, assuming I wasn’t blown to bits by stray cannon fire, the bomber was supposed to track my movements and intervene if things went wrong.
There was no way for me to know if the plan was working. The worst case scenario would be for the vessel to be struck before reaching the docks. If water penetrated the crate, I would blow the lid and take my chances.
The boat rocked at wild angles. I felt the concussion of cannon fire all around. There were moments when I felt I might lose consciousness.
It was so peaceful. I felt erased.
Maybe I wouldn’t fire the charges at the first sign of trouble. Maybe I would let the water rise around me and sink with the rest of the cargo. At the bottom of the Atlantic, I would spend a few hours in total quiet, taking calm breaths until the oxygen ran out.
My sense of time was gone. The run to shore seemed to go on forever.
Without knowing for sure when it happened, I became aware that the rollicking had stopped. Everything was still. Either I was dead or we had docked.
I blew the charges. The vest kept my ribs from collapsing under the pressure. Glass cracked in the goggles. The top of the crate tore apart and launched into the air. I pulled the head piece away and sat up to take a deep breath.
The rush of air made me dizzy. I swayed in place for a half minute or more. If the guards nearby had not been so stunned to see someone rise from the exploding crate, I’m sure they would have shot me.
I got my bearings and climbed halfway out before the first rifle shot struck me in the back. The vest held but the pain was intense. I was knocked down between containers.
I tossed the neck guard aside then let all the air drain from the vest. Unprotected, the next shot would kill me but I needed to move. I jabbed a hole in the rubber cap that connected the steam canister to the head piece. Escaping gas caused it to spin and jump all over.
I lit the gas with a flint chip. Flames spread quickly as the canister whirled. Fire climbed the sides of the wooden crates. Smoke rose to the rafters. I heard the guards yell, approaching on the run. I sprinted from behind the boxes.
They fired but missed. I kept my eyes on the open door ahead.
It didn’t take long for flames to creep into the oxygen canister. The explosion was contained within the loading dock. In the cacophony outside, I doubted many would notice a loud bang from the docks.
I looked back to see the guard who shot me clutching a broken shin. He looked to be in a great deal of pain. I was glad.
* * *
Ernie Stark
June, 1861
The original design at Ryker’s Island aimed to isolate inmates. It used the same automation as in the transport capsule, only on a larger scale.
The first prisoners went crazy. They were unde
r constant observation yet always alone. They ate, exercised, washed and slept without seeing other humans.
The rumbling of the prison sounded like voices. It was common for prisoners to talk to the building at night.
Suicide was rampant. Convicts who served their sentence were released as outright lunatics. Change became a necessity.
Administrators tested different solutions. In the end, they had to accept that inmates needed each other. In the most telling experiment, fifty prisoners were released into an empty yard. They didn’t speak. No fights broke out. They just huddled together in one corner.
That was the end for Ryker’s Island as a fully automated facility. Common areas were created. A social order emerged. Inmates clustered into gangs.
What happened next caught everyone by surprise. One idiot savant among the prisoners figured out the timing and arrangement of shifting walls. Changes to the old architecture made it possible for prisoners to slip into small pockets of space when a ledge folded away or a corridor opened. No one dared because they were sure to be crushed or lost.
The savant disappeared for long stretches. Hours later, he would be back at the quad or in his cell without warning.
That man became a seeing-eye dog for the gangs. Mobility was power. Inmates went wherever they pleased even during a lock down. Guards couldn’t stop them.
Weaker prisoners missed the old days. Now there really were voices in the walls.
William Bucholz would have done better in that original setting. When I found him, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Even getting kicked in the teeth, he seemed tired.
In all the time I’ve spent with men who would lie to your face then call you a sucker, I never saw a scramble like the one to get at Bucholz. Men were fighting each other to reach him.
Saul was right in there. He wasn’t getting his hands dirty. His goons were scrapping with another gang, trying to get at Bucholz first.
I told Robert it would happen fast. Saul flashed me a smile. I punched him in the mouth.
No one knew which side I was on. I pushed into the crowd, between the gangs and Bucholz. He looked up. His rat face made me think about all the grifters I’d ever worked over.
