The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

by David Luchuk

  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 manife
st, 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.