Entry #5: The Ship of Ghosts (1873)

The Mary Celeste

The star-crossed history of the Mary Celeste began in Spencer’s Island, Nova Scotia, where she was built as the brigantine Amazon. Her first captain died of pneumonia at the beginning of her maiden voyage. Her second captain collided with a fishing boat and was towed back to the yard, where the ship caught fire during repairs. Her third captain led the ship on her first transatlantic crossing, during which she suffered another collision near Dover.

After several years, the Amazon ran aground off of Glace Bay, Nova Scotia and was sold to an American buyer, who reregistered the ship in America and renamed her the Mary Celeste with the intent of running regular trade between the eastern American seaboard and the Adriatic Sea.

*             *             *

After my near-death encounter in Chicago, I started taking lessons in several varieties of self-defense. I was now fairly well versed in boxing and two different forms of stick fighting. If I found myself faced with an assailant, I felt confident that I could keep myself from getting severely injured by a maniac with a relic. The furniture in my office, in addition to the Novoscope and the Apothecary, now included a punching bag and a training dummy. It wouldn’t help against a bullet, of course, but it would definitely even the odds against anything less.

When I got a bearing on a relic in late November of 1872, I almost thought that something had gone wrong with the Novoscope. I figured that a centuries-old instrument had every right to throw the occasional cog. I checked and double-checked the figures that the Novoscope was giving me, but the data were consistent. The Novoscope was telling me that a relic had manifested in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

The only thing I could think of was that there had been some kind of event on a ship, most likely a merchant vessel of some kind. I immediately drafted a letter on Cambridge stationery and sent copies to several London shipping companies, asking if any of them had recently commissioned vessels that may have passed through that area. I then refined the letter down to a telegram and sent it to every American shipping firm I could think of. Finally, I gave my pro forma report to the college council, who still officially oversaw my activities as the curator of the Abnormal Relics Collection.

Unfortunately, the council was as skeptical of my readings as I had been at first, and they recommended that I take some well-deserved leave. After nearly eight years as the curator, they said, I was clearly due a break from my duties.

I wasn’t entirely sure what to do. I had devoted too much time to my job to consider any other lifestyle anymore. I could no more take a break from my work than from food and drink. In the absence of any clear course of action, I simply remained in my office, training and watching the Novoscope in case anything else came up. Hopefully, a reply would return from my various missives that would give me a bread crumb to follow.

Two weeks went by. Of the few London firms that were willing to cooperate with an academic investigation, none had sent any ships anywhere near the spot I had specified. However, I did eventually get a cable from one of a group of investors in America who had heard of my investigation. They said that they didn’t wish their names to be revealed, but that they owned a ship that may have passed by that area of ocean. They said that their ship was already late in reaching its destination, and they were concerned for its safety, since the captain, himself a co-owner, had brought his wife and daughter aboard. Finally, they hinted that the ship in question had a somewhat colorful history, and they were worried about the rumors that might arise should people hear about such a tragedy befalling their property.

It was rather a long telegram. It spoke to their level of concern that they were willing to send such a long cable across an ocean. This was obviously a lead that I needed to take very seriously. According to their information, their ship was overdue for arrival in Italy, carrying a cargo of alcohol. On a route from America to Italy, the ship would have to pass through the Pillars of Hercules. There were several ways that I could possibly get to that ship, and they all started from Gibraltar. Perhaps the council were right. A few days under the Mediterranean sun might do me good.

I made my way to Gibraltar, by train when circumstances allowed and by carriage for those rare stretches of the journey that went beyond the reach of Europe’s growing rail network. I brought with me the Titania’s Kiss stone, the Pinkerton Badge from Chicago, and a walking stick that I had been using in my stick fighting training. It wasn’t quite as fine as the cane of a proper English gentleman, but it was very sturdy and had quite a stout head, well suited for use as a weapon in close quarters.

As I headed south, I saw the snows of winter give way to the sun and sand of the Mediterranean. I found it necessary to shed my heavy overcoat when we reached Andalusia. I got off the train at Cadiz and boarded a coach to La Linea de la Concepcion, a small proto-town on the border with Gibraltar. The old fortifications between Spanish and British territory were still very much in place, turning Gibraltar into an oversized medieval castle. There was a secure military checkpoint on the British side of the border, but I showed them the Pinkerton Badge and told them I was with the Foreign Office, and they let me right in with a cheerful greeting. It didn’t matter what the Badge actually said; all the guards saw was a man who outranked them.

I passed through the checkpoint and proceeded to the main harbor. My plan was to speak to a naval officer of some kind, or possibly just interview as many dockworkers as I could find, and find out if any ships had reported anything unusual lately, but by a stroke of fate I spotted a suspicious-looking brigantine entering the harbor. Her sails and rigging seemed somewhat the worse for wear, not quite to the standards of a respectable merchant crew. I always thought that sailors took more pride in their work than that.

I headed down to the harbor to get a better look, but I got caught up in the bustle of men on the dock. This ship seemed to be eagerly awaited by everyone nearby, and there was quite the parade of officers here. The crew of the bedraggled ship were greeted first by a different captain, who shook hands warmly with the sailors. He seemed genuinely glad and relieved to see them. From what I could overhear of their conversation, the man in charge of the ailing ship was the other man’s first mate. They had discovered the ship at sea, and the captain had instructed the mate to bring the ship into port behind him. Judging from the look on the captain’s face, he had worried that his first mate wouldn’t reach port safely. I wondered what had happened to this ship that represented a threat to even a replacement crew.

Before I could get any closer, the assembled corps of officers took charge of the gathering and ushered the captain and his entire crew into a nearby building that reminded me of a courthouse. I realized why as I approached closer and read the words “Vice Admiralty Court” on the building’s façade. Whatever had happened on this ship, these officers were gathered to get to the bottom of it, come hell or high water. If I wanted to know what had happened on that ship, I needed to be in at this hearing. I walked up to the courthouse, but I was stopped at the door by an armed Royal Marine.

“Only involved personnel beyond this point, sir,” said the Marine.

I flashed him the Badge. “Dr. Israel St. James. Foreign Office sent me to witness the hearing.”

The Marine’s brow furrowed. His instinctual obedience to authority was flying in the face of the evidence. “Beg your pardon, sir, but I didn’t know that the Foreign Office employed Americans, sir.”

“I’m on loan from Cambridge University. The Foreign Secretary felt that my field of expertise would be of aid in this situation.”

“Very good, sir.” The Marine stood aside, and I entered the courthouse. I was glad that he didn’t ask me how the Foreign Office had known about the ship so far in advance, seeing that it had only just arrived. Even granted the amount of governmental mystique that I was tapping into with my Foreign Office cover, I was starting to enjoy the Pinkerton Badge. There was nothing like an air of pure, platonic Authority to grease my way onto a military base.

One by one, the court room filled with naval officers and assorted seamen, and I made myself as comfortable as I could at the back of the room. The witnesses’ box, or whatever it was called in the Navy, was filled with about a dozen sailors, including the captain and first mate I had seen on the pier. The judge took his seat and banged his gavel, and the hearing began.

It turned out that it didn’t matter how comfortable I had made myself, because no amount of comfort could have made that hearing any easier to endure. I had sat through faculty meetings at Cambridge that were fountains of revelry compared to that hearing. However, over the next several weeks I was able to get a pretty good idea of what had taken place.

On the evening of the fourth day of November, David Morehouse and Benjamin Briggs had dinner together with their wives. They had sailed together as young men, and they were now captains of their own brigantines, respectively the Dei Gratia and the Mary Celeste. The following day, Captain Briggs set sail from Staten Island with 1,701 barrels of commercial alcohol bound for Genoa, by way of the Strait of Gibraltar. Aboard the ship with him were his wife, his daughter, and a crew of seven.

On the fifteenth day of November, Captain Morehouse set sail himself with 1,735 barrels of petroleum, also headed through the Strait of Gibraltar. Their journey was uneventful, despite reports of rough seas all through October, until the fourth day of December, when the helmsman of the Dei Gratia sighted a ship approximately six hundred miles west of Portugal. Other crewmen were summoned, and the ship was confirmed as the Mary Celeste. The crew of the Dei Gratia were concerned because the Mary Celeste was yawing slightly, her sails were torn, and she ought to have already reached Italy given her ten-day head start. She appeared to be drifting without a crew, and two hours of observation confirmed this to be the case.

Oliver Deveau, Captain Morehouse’s first mate, boarded the Mary Celeste and conducted a search and inspection. The ship appeared to be still seaworthy, but there was water all over every deck and three and a half feet of water in the hold. All of the ship’s papers were missing, except for the logbook. The ship’s clock and compass were damaged. The ship’s lifeboat, sextant, and marine chronometer were missing. The peak halyard was also missing, but a line was found tied to the ship with one end trailing in the water, and it was believed that this was the missing halyard. The cargo of alcohol was largely intact, except for nine barrels, which were found to be empty. It was decided that First Mate Deveau would sail the Mary Celeste to Gibraltar with a small contingent of the Dei Gratia crew, so that the salvage rights could be determined.

Fortunately, the judge allowed a recess for the celebration of Christmas, but other than that, I could barely perceive the passage of time. I think I must have spent nearly two months in Gibraltar waiting for any hints about what I was looking for. There was so much unexplained about the fate of the Mary Celeste that anything could have been the relic. I even searched the ship myself one evening, using the Badge to get past the guards on the pier, but nothing on the ship piqued my interest.

Over the ensuing weeks, I noticed that one of the crew seemed increasingly agitated. I first noticed him when the list of missing and damaged objects was read off. Of all the crew of the Dei Gratia, he was the one who seemed to be keeping the tightest rein on his emotions, as though he were trying to avoid reacting. The other sailors were reacting in small ways to the mention of the missing objects, but this one’s face was a stone. He seemed like he was hiding something. As the hearing proceeded, he grew more and more agitated, looking around the room as though he were being pursued. He seemed to be paying less attention to the hearing as it went on. I could only imagine what sort of torment might have been holding his attention.

One day, the sailor in question failed to appear for the hearing. The judge asked Captain Morehouse about the whereabouts of the missing sailor, but he had no idea. The sailor had been in the garrison with the rest of the Dei Gratia’s crew that morning, according to the captain, but there was now no sign of him. He suggested that the sailor must have slipped away from the others as they were on their way to the courtroom. He hinted that he, like myself, had noticed some aberrant behavior in the young man over the past several weeks, which he had put down to nerves regarding the outcome of the hearing. The judge ordered two of the Marines in attendance to go to the garrison and search for the missing sailor. I immediately rose from my seat and followed them out. If the missing sailor had been somehow influenced by a relic, no mere Royal Marine could help him.

With the Pinkerton Badge, I convinced the Marines to let me help them find the missing sailor. We searched the garrison, but it was empty, along with the mess, a local tavern, and anywhere else where a sailor might be hiding. We spoke to the guards at the checkpoint between Gibraltar and La Linea de la Concepcion, but no military personnel had left since the hearing had begun. We spoke to the harbormaster, and no ships had left the harbor, not even a rowboat. Either the missing sailor had taken it upon himself to swim to Tangier, or he was somewhere in Gibraltar still.

The Marines and I proceeded to the headquarters of the Gibraltar Police to solicit their help in finding this sailor. They were worried that they were somewhat overstepping their bounds, that they would see trouble for involving colonial authorities in a military investigation, but I assured them that I would authorize their actions on behalf of the Foreign Office. We contacted the local constabulary, and they agreed to help us with our search. I suggested a methodical quartering of the area, starting with the public houses, boarding houses, and anywhere else that a runaway might take refuge. The marines went out into the colony, each with a constable, and the other constables split into pairs. As they went out to canvass the neighborhood, I went off on my own to follow a hunch. If I were being tormented by forces beyond the ken of mortal man, the first thing on my mind would be finding a place of safety, a place of sanctuary. In the minds of men, one kind of place meant sanctuary more than any other.

The look of Gibraltar was very different from that of Andalusia, just a few miles to the North. Except for the occasional Moorish horseshoe arch, and of course the flawlessly bright blue sky overhead, I might have been back in England. The people wore British fashions. The streets were covered with British cobbles. And on my way to the police headquarters, I had seen the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, the seat of the Gibraltar diocese of the Anglican Church. I was about to go back and check it out when I looked down the street from the headquarters and saw an older looking church, the Cathedral of St. Mary the Crowned, the seat of the local Roman Catholic diocese.

I thought to myself: well, why not? It looks like an older building, so it’s likely to have more of a metaphysical presence. The sailor is more likely to be Anglican than Roman Catholic, but nothing says solidity quite like a Roman Catholic cathedral. And if I turn up empty, I thought, I can always try Holy Trinity next. It’s only a couple of blocks away.

I stepped into the nave of St. Mary the Crowned and surveyed the assembled parishioners. There weren’t many people in the pews at that time of day in the middle of the week, but near the front I saw someone who looked very much like a terrified young Jack Tar. He didn’t have a rosary, and he wasn’t crossing himself or anything, but he did appear to be praying. As I got closer, I could tell that he actually wasn’t praying. He was doing what people do to whom praying does not come naturally, just asking for help from anyone who might be listening. In my limited experience, sailors were the sort of people who didn’t closely associate with God, but they spent their lives face to face with Fate and Chance. They spent too much time at the whim of the wind and the sea to believe in an omnipotent, benevolent God, but there were always times when even a sailor needed someone to pray to. At times like that, a man could only show up at God’s house and hope that he was in a mood to accept unannounced visitors.

I walked down the center of the nave and sat down next to the sailor. He was sitting with his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes screwed tightly shut. I looked up at the crucifix behind the altar and quickly crossed myself, just to show willing. I knew more than most how important it could be to show proper respect in another man’s house.

“Are you all right, sailor?” I said.

He jumped in his seat and turned to face me. I gave my friendliest smile to try and calm him down, which probably wasn’t that charming, given that I spent most of my time in my office or in training, but he didn’t seem too picky.

“Who are you?” he said.

“My name is Dr. Israel St. James. I’m an archaeologist from Cambridge University. I’m the curator of the Abnormal Relics Collection.” He began to look a little guilty when he heard me talk about abnormal relics. “I have reason to believe that such a relic manifested on board the Mary Celeste last November, and I suspect that you now have possession of that relic.”

“Look,” he said, “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just wanted to get a little cash for myself. You know, we don’t get paid real well. I thought I could find something that no one would miss that I could flog for a quick profit. Lots of other things were stolen, you know. Who’s to say that the pirates didn’t take it or it washed overboard or something?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I got off the Gratia, free and clear. We bunked up in the garrison for the hearing, and all of a sudden . . . You’re going to think I’m a madman.”

“Oh, I could tell you stories,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me one?”

“After I had the sextant for a few weeks, I started to hear voices. I heard whispering all the time. I couldn’t tell what they were saying because they were talking over each other all the time, but they were definitely trying to get my attention. Over time, it just got louder and louder. Being in here is the first piece of quiet I’ve had in months.”

He was clearly in a bad state. I needed to be gentle or he might go to pieces in front of me. “Do you still have the relic?”

He unbuttoned his coat and pulled out a shiny brass sextant. I took it in my hand, and I felt the rush of knowledge. It was no wonder that the sailor was hearing voices, because the sextant was like a beacon for ghosts. Looking through its eyepiece and adjusting its mirrors and shades allowed the viewer to see ghosts and auras, and any ghost in the area would be drawn to such a person like a moth to a flame. A ghost was nothing more than a bundle of memories and unfulfilled desires, cursed to haunt the earth until their needs were met. They were virtually powerless without a receptive mortal to do their bidding. The discovery of the sextant from the Mary Celeste must have been like setting off a fireworks show. Suddenly, the sailor had the attention of who knew how many restless spirits. No wonder he had been distracted during the hearing. However, the sailor had made a good guess about the church; ghosts apparently didn’t like trespassing on consecrated ground.

Ghosts, fairies – there were more and more creatures of folklore out there that were turning out to be all too real. Maybe my next job would send me up against a werewolf or two.

“What do you make of it?” said the sailor.

“You were right,” I said. “The voices you’re hearing are because of this sextant. Without it, they should leave you alone. Wait here for an hour, and then head back to the hearing. The problem should be gone by then.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the sailor. “Thank you so much.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “Now, do you know the way to the nearest cemetery?”

He gave me directions to Trafalgar Cemetery, a few blocks south of the cathedral. As I left the church, I could already hear the whispers that had plagued the sailor for the past few months. Unlike him, though, I was no stranger to the weird and unearthly. When I reached the cemetery, I sat down on a bench and brought the sextant’s telescope to my eye.

I immediately saw a throng of spirits around me, all of them reaching for me and mouthing words. If I pointed the telescope at one of them and manipulated the sextant just right, I could pick out that voice a little more clearly among the cacophony, but the cloud of voices was always there.

Well, if I were going to do something for these things, better sooner than later.

“Well, I think we can have some quiet time now,” I said. “What do you want?”

The whispering grew louder.

“What do you expect me to do for you?”

If they hadn’t been ghosts, they would have been shouting at this point. With the sextant, I could see them pounding the air with their fists and baring their teeth at me. The force of their glares was starting to fray my nerves. Because of the extra pressure I was putting on the ghosts to get an answer out of them, I was getting in fifteen minutes what the discoverer of the sextant had gotten over the course of months. The shouts turned to screams. It was all I could do to remain of sound mind under the onslaught.

I pulled myself together and brought the sextant back up to my eye, focusing on the voice of each ghost in turn. After several minutes of concentration, I felt that I had a rough handle on what they wanted. Each of them represented a person who had died at sea, all unremembered and uncelebrated. From what few details I could discern from what they were telling me, most of them had died before the days of well-mapped shipping routes, when ships were sent out into the wild ocean without any reassurance that they would return. These were the original explorers, who wagered their lives for a chance at riches. Men with wives and families needed not apply.

All of them wanted the same thing. They wanted nothing more than a memorial.

Well, if a memorial was called for, then I was in the right place. While Trafalgar Cemetery mainly contained victims of yellow fever, it was named for the Battle of Trafalgar, and it contained victims of several naval battles during the Napoleonic Wars. Most of the actual victims of Trafalgar had been buried at sea, but they were all commemorated here. If there was a better place to commemorate the forgotten victims of early sea travel, I couldn’t think of it.

The cemetery featured a small chapel, really nothing more than a light shelter with an altar, but on a metaphysical level, it was more than enough. I stepped up to the altar, lit a candle, and said a few words about the eternal profundity of the ocean and remembering those who were lost. It wasn’t exactly an award-winning sermon, but it had plenty of feeling behind it, and to the dead, that was what mattered. The whispers died down, and through the sextant’s eyepiece, I saw the ghosts fade away, their wishes appeased.

I made my way back to the naval base and collected my things. I had planned to take the train back to England, but I decided that it would be more fitting to go by ship.

Entry #4: The Talons of the Eagle (1871)

The Pinkerton National Detective Agency

The Pinkerton Agency, established by Allan Pinkerton in 1850, is responsible for the modern image of the private detective. They were hired by various businesses, as well as the federal government, to perform duties ranging from personal security to private military contracts. They were the primary agency hired by businesses to oppose union actions during the labor unrest of the late 19^th century. At their peak, the Pinkertons were the largest private law enforcement agency in the world, employing a greater standing roster than the United States Army.

*             *             *

I stepped off the train in Chicago, the location of the Novoscope’s most recently detected event. I had been born in New York City, a great American city, one of the oldest in the nation. Nonetheless, I could feel the vibrant energy of Chicago, a brand-new city in the heart of America and the fastest-growing city in the world, a city that was champing at the bit to get on with its day.

I took down my suitcase from the overhead rack on the train and headed for the door. I had packed a large trunk for my last trip to the States, and it seemed to have been a bit cumbersome and overcomplicated in retrospect. I was experimenting on this trip with a lighter load to make traveling easier. This trip was to a major American city, not to a minor resort town in the middle of the forest, after all. I figured that I could easily find anything that I hadn’t brought from Cambridge.

The one thing that I had made sure to bring, however, was secreted in an inside pocket of my waistcoat. Outwardly, it appeared to be a letter opener with an ornately detailed handle, entirely made from steel. However, the handle was actually hollow. The flat front of the handle could be slid down over the blade to reveal the Titania’s Kiss gemstone I had recovered from Monticello two years earlier, which would rise proud of the rest of the handle on a spring. A catch on the back of the handle, if pressed, would retract the stone back into the handle, causing the cover to snap back over the stone and turn the device back into an ordinary letter opener.

I had commissioned the device from a craftsman in London upon returning from New York with the stone. When I found the stone, it was being used by a fairy woman to send men to sleep for the pleasure of her queen. Contact with the stone for one second would render a man unconscious for twenty-four hours, casting his mind away to play with the fairies. The trick letter opener allowed me to wield the stone safely while still keeping it handy for rapid deployment. A quick flick of the cover, and I could tap a man with the stone for an easy eight hours of sleep. I could always hold the stone to them for longer, of course, and put my assailant down for years on end, but an overly prolonged stay in Titania’s court was not at all conducive to prime mental health, and I couldn’t conceive of a circumstance where I would need to send a man to sleep for longer than one day.

I asked a ticket taker for directions to the nearest hotel and bought a newspaper from a street vendor, looking for any clues about my quarry. From my experiences with the Titania’s Kiss stone and the St. Jerome reliquary, it seemed likely that the relic I sought would have caused enough of a stir in the community to merit a mention. As I sat down on a bench to check up on current events, I noticed that everyone in the street seemed to be walking in the same direction. Well, why not, I thought to myself. It was vaguely possible that this would give me some information about the relic, and if not, it might at least be an amusing diversion. Lord knew that I hadn’t had many opportunities for fun while sitting in my office watching the Novoscope day in and day out.

I followed the crowd to a park, where I saw a stage, bleachers, and a lectern set up. The bleachers were already occupied by various well-dressed people, whom I presumed to be various Chicago dignitaries. A small bandstand was set up alongside the stage, and musicians were getting themselves positioned. At the stroke of two o’clock, the band struck up a small fanfare, and the master of ceremonies introduced the mayor of Chicago, who took to the podium to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

The crowd seemed to respond very enthusiastically to the mayor’s presentation. I craned my neck to see if he had anything on his person that might qualify as an abnormal relic, perhaps a medallion or other piece of jewelry. Perhaps my quarry enabled its holder to sway multitudes in one’s favor. However, as the mayor began his speech, inaugurating the new parkland with a statue of its benefactor, I could feel no aura of manipulation washing over me. I was usually fairly adept at detecting the effect of a relic on my mind. My contact with the Apothecary had attuned me to the nature of relics, enabling me to realize when one was being used on me, but I felt no such sensation now. Maybe the mayor was not the culprit here after all.

As I weaved my way toward the front of the crowd to get a better look at the other dignitaries in the stands, I heard a commotion from the foot of the stage. There was screaming as a man shouted imprecations at the mayor, drew a revolver, and fired. The mayor dove to the stage and cowered behind his lectern while a small cadre of men, whom I had not hitherto noticed, bore down upon the gunman and tackled him to the ground. I pushed through to the front to get a better view, along with a dozen other gawkers and bystanders, but one of the men shouted, “By the authority of the office of His Honor the Mayor, I order all of you to stand back!” He took out a leather wallet and showed a badge to the gathering throng.

No one present that day could possibly have doubted the weight carried by that badge. In our minds, the man brandishing that badge wielded incontrovertible authority. His very word was law, his every utterance as good as gospel. This man had the right, nay, the duty, to bestride the nation with Justice and Truth at his elbow, answerable to none but the very highest authority, and anyone who crossed his will was at his mercy.

As he and his compatriots bundled up the would-be assassin and hauled him off, and as I recovered from the cowing effect I had experienced, I knew that I had found my relic. I asked a man standing near me in the crowd, “Who were those men?”

“You mean you don’t know?” he said.

“I’ve only just gotten off the train today,” I said. “I’ve been overseas for several years.”

“Those are the Pinkertons,” said the man. “The Mayor has a squad of them as his personal bodyguards. Word has it that President Grant has a team of Pinkertons of his own.” The man walked quickly away from the park as the crowd dispersed, and I had to hurry to catch up.

“Those men work for the government?”

“In a way. They’re private detectives, hired by the government to protect important people and investigate nefarious goings-on, I imagine.”

“I should think that to be the job of the police, wouldn’t you say?”

“I gather that they’re a sort of private police now.”

“Private police? Seems to me to be a highly corruptible situation. What’s to keep them from rushing into our homes and ordering us all about at their whim?”

“Look, friend, I don’t worry myself about things like that, nor should you. It doesn’t pay to cross people like that, not with the kind of friends they have in Washington. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll stay well away from them.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

We parted ways, and I hastened to the hotel, still carrying my suitcase and newspaper. Once I checked into my room, I asked the bellboy for any back copies of the paper that they still had around. I then went up to my room to examine today’s edition for any articles pertaining to the Pinkertons. Some minutes later, the bellboy brought up an armload of old papers that he had been able to scrounge for me, and I tipped him well for his efforts. I got down to business with the last week or two of news, and by the evening I had a pretty good idea of what had transpired in Chicago to occasion my arrival.

According to the papers, there had been a session of Congress two weeks ago in which they approved funding for the Department of Justice to create an agency for the investigation of federal crimes. The Department of Justice, believing the funding inadequate to create a truly integrated agency from whole cloth, awarded the money to the Pinkerton Agency, thus effectively contracting them as government investigators.

This must have been the event that reached my notice. Once the Pinkerton Agency became a federally sanctioned authority, one of their badges had become saturated with the essence of that authority. As long as they held that badge in their possession, they would be as the fist of God Himself. I left the papers in my room and got a street directory from the concierge desk, where I found the address of the Pinkerton Detective Agency’s national headquarters.

I knew perfectly well that this was not the safest of plans. I was intending to walk into the headquarters of a government agency, bold as brass, and demand the surrender of one of their own badges, with no greater authority than that of the college council in the History Department at Cambridge. And unlike my escapade with Titania’s emissary in the Catskills, these men were likely to have firearms. Well, there was nothing for it. If marching into their headquarters bold as brass was my only recourse, then bold as brass it would be.

I walked into their offices and asked to see the agent in charge. While I was waiting, another agent walked in from a side office holding a file folder. I immediately recognized him. He was the agent from the park, the one who had the badge. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Excuse me,” I said as I approached him, “but I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time.”

“I can give you a single minute,” he said. “Busy day today.”

“Excellent,” I said. “I was in the park when that man attempted to murder the mayor. Nasty business. I noticed that your badge had an unusual effect on the crowd. May I see it?”

“Do you work for the Tribune?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then if you want to see my badge, here it is.” He pulled the badge from an inside pocket of his jacket and flashed it at me. “On my authority as an agent of the Pinkertons and a duly appointed representative of the United States government, I order you to vacate the premises immediately and to cease your interference with our affairs.”

Thanks to my attunement with relics like the badge, it had no effect on me this time. I could still feel the vague apprehension associated with spurning authority, but I was not compelled by it as I had been in the park. He knew it, too, judging by the confused look on his face when I neglected to turn tail and flee.

“I’m sorry, agent, but I cannot leave Chicago without that badge.”

I heard a door open behind me, and then I heard the footsteps of at least two other men. Even if I had been planning anything violent, that was out the window now.

“Who are you?” said the man in front of me. “What is your name?”

“Dr. Israel St. James, from Cambridge University.”

“An American working for an English university? That’s unusual.”

“I specialize in the unusual, agent, as I’m sure you already suspect. And I grew up in New York.”

“Regardless of your field of study, foreign academics have no jurisdiction in this country, doctor.” One of the men behind me put his hand on my shoulder. “Now, I must ask you to leave. We have work to do.”

“Like I said,” I said as I reached inside my waistcoat, “I cannot leave Chicago without that badge. You are wielding power that is beyond your control, and it will consume you if you let it.” I took the letter opener from my inside pocket. “Now kindly tell the man behind me to remove his hand from my shoulder.”

“I will remove my hand when you are on the sidewalk, doctor,” said the agent behind me. His grip got tighter. “You were told to leave.”

I slid open the handle of the letter opener and tapped the Titania’s Kiss stone against the man’s hand. He immediately went limp and fell to the ground. Both of the other two agents drew their revolvers and pointed them at my head.

“What the hell did you do to him?”

“Don’t worry, he’s fine,” I said. “He’ll be fresh as a daisy in about eight hours. Like I said, I specialize in the unusual, which is why I have to take that badge.”

“You aren’t taking my badge, sir, except straight to hell!” said the agent. “Which is where I will send you if you continue your interference! You have no right to subvert the authority of the Pinkertons!”

“This is not the authority of the Pinkertons!” I said. He was starting to fray at the edges. I had to tread lightly. “This is nothing but the power of that badge! Listen to yourself! You’ve already started to be corrupted by it!”

Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see that our little altercation had drawn a crowd. Everyone else in the front office was staring at the man with the badge and edging away from him, and he was suddenly aware of the fact. He visibly calmed down and holstered his revolver, but he didn’t back down.

“Look, agent,” I said, attempting to mend a few bridges, “the Pinkerton Agency must have plenty of badges. You surely won’t miss one, not such a one as this.”

“Dr. St. James, this badge is the property of the Pinkerton Agency, and unusual or not, you have no right to it. Now, I will say this once, and once only. Leave this building. If I catch you interfering with our duties again, you will be thrown in jail. Is that understood?”

I said nothing. I just turned around and walked out. I made it about thirty feet down the street before I collapsed onto a bench and started shaking. I had never had a gun pointed at me before. I had never even had my life threatened since the expedition to the House of Wisdom eight years earlier, the one that had sent my life down the rabbit hole. And that day on the ship, I had used the Rod of Asclepius to survive my wounds. Without the Rod, a single bullet from the Pinkerton agent’s revolver could wound me without hope of recovery. I resolved never to go out on any future recovery missions without the Rod at my side.

Until then, though, I would have to stay away from the muzzle of that man’s weapon. I had seen his eyes while he was under the influence of the badge. If he got the idea that I was attempting to usurp his authority again, and if we were away from the scrutiny of his fellow agents, he was likely to shoot me. I needed to make a plan, so I headed back to my hotel room to have a calming drink and clear my head.

The next morning, I rose early and made my way back to the Pinkertons’ headquarters, but instead of strolling back in through the front door, I bought another paper and leaned against the wall of the building across the street. I was hoping to catch sight of the agent with the badge as he left the office on whatever business he had to take care of, follow him, catch him unawares, grab the badge, and run like the blazes for the hotel before he knew anything was wrong.

I must have read the entire paper from front to back at least three times before I finally spotted my quarry leaving the Pinkerton Agency building. I folded up my paper and walked after him, keeping enough distance as to keep my pursuit from looking obvious. He sped up and lost me a few times, but his behavior and dress were distinctive enough that I was able to find him again each time.

As I followed him through Chicago, the increasing smell told me that we were heading for the massive city-within-a-city that was the Union Stock Yards, a 375-acre spread of animal pens, slaughterhouses, packing plants, and other aspects of the meat production process. This batch of buildings produced more than three-quarters of America’s meat. Once my target entered the stock yards, I would have to step lively to stay on his heel without being seen.

I managed to follow the agent to the office of the man in charge. There seemed to be some sort of labor dispute in the works, and work had stopped. The Pinkerton must have been called in to break up the strike. They didn’t seem like the kind of arbitrators who sat around a table and worked out a reasonable compromise; if the Pinkertons were called in to end a dispute, it was because the time for a peaceful solution had long since passed.

Just as the agent had entered the office and introduced himself to the foreman, I entered behind him. “Sorry to be so late. I was held up.”

The Pinkerton agent immediately recognized me, but he knew that he couldn’t start anything violent in the middle of the yard foreman’s office without a good cause, which I was resolved not to give.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he said.

“I was called in to resolve a labor dispute,” I said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I am here to resolve this dispute, by right of my legal authority as an agent of the Pinkertons.”

“Impossible!” I shouted, turning to the foreman. “I am an agent of the Pinkertons. This man is an impostor, obviously sent here on behalf of the strikers to defraud you, sir. I suggest that you have him ejected from your premises with all necessary force.”

“Liar!” shouted the agent. “I am a Pinkerton agent, and this man is the impostor!”

The poor foreman looked completely lost. I regretted putting the man in such a position, but I needed that badge, and causing a world of confusion was the only way I could devise to remove a prized possession from an armed man.

“Are you gentlemen sure that you aren’t both Pinkertons?” said the foreman.

“Certainly,” said the agent. “I am the only authentic agent of the Pinkertons in this room.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “Then prove it. Let’s see your badge.”

He pulled his badge from his jacket and proudly showed it to me. I took a look for appearance’s sake.

“All right, fine, you win,” I said. “You’re the real agent here, so I’ll just …” As I was about to turn and leave, I noticed something on his badge. “Hang on a moment.” I took the badge from his hands to take a closer look. Before he could accused me of trying to steal it again, I played the only possible trump card that I come up with during my pursuit.

“This badge is a fake.”

“What?” said the agent and the foreman together.

“It’s a forgery. This isn’t a real Pinkerton badge.”

“That’s impossible,” said the agent. “I keep that badge on my person at all times.”

“Do you ever put it in your desk drawer or leave it with anyone?”

“Well, I sometimes leave it at the office by accident when I’m leaving for the day…”

“There you are, then. Someone with access to your office must have switched your badge for this replica when your attention was elsewhere.”

“But who could want to do that?” said the agent to himself. He bent his head in thought, racking his brain for any of his fellow agents who might want to betray him.

“Hey, there’s someone out there,” I said, pointing out the office window to the stockyards. “Do you know that man, Agent?”

“Who?” said the agent. “Where is he?” He turned to look out the window, and the foreman turned as well, trying to see who was trespassing in his stockyards with a stolen Pinkerton badge.

While their backs were turned, I tucked the badge into my waistcoat and ran for it. I’ll be the first to admit that it was a risky and sophomoric ploy, but it had the advantage of being the last thing the agent would have been expecting. In his power-crazed delirium, and after his brief and colorful display of megalomania in his headquarters, he might well have suspected one his fellow agents of wanting the power of the badge for himself.

No sooner had I fled the foreman’s office than I heard a shout of rage behind me, as the Pinkerton agent realized my duplicity and gave chase. I turned every corner that I could to avoid presenting a target for his revolver, but there were a few long stretches of alley where I could only bob and weave as he fired on me. The bullets bit into the wood and brick buildings on either side of me, and I found extra speed to open up the gap between myself and my pursuer.

I pushed my way through crowds of people, who were doubtless aiding the Pinkerton agent in his pursuit and letting him stay on my trail. I was fortunate that he didn’t have the power of his badge to gain support in his chase, but of course a man with a gun commands a special kind of authority, and people tend to assume that a man is guilty merely because he is running. As I ran through the streets of Chicago, cutting through horse and pedestrian traffic, I thankfully spotted a policeman and skidded to a stop, nearly collapsing at his feet from exhaustion as the rush of the chase left my veins. I resolved to begin an exercise regimen as soon as my mission was over, as this was unlikely to be the last foot chase of my career.

“Can I help you, sir?” said the policeman.

At that moment, the Pinkerton agent emerged from the same alley I had come from and approached me and the officer. His gun was no longer pointed at me, since the accidental gunning down of a bystander would have been difficult to explain, but the gun was still in his hand and he had the look of retribution in his eye.

“Officer, this man is a thief. He stole my credentials, and I intend to press charges.”

The policeman began to reach for his billy club. “Is this true, sir?”

“Not at all. This badge is mine.” I took out the badge and brandished it at the policeman. “This man assaulted me at the Union Stock Yards and stole my gun. I request that he be detained and my weapon returned.”

The policeman turned to the agent. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to return the man’s weapon and surrender yourself to police custody.”

The agent was even more furious at me now, and he still had his gun in his hand. However, he now had the attention of a policeman, and our little bit of street theater had attracted an audience. He might have been able to get away with shooting me in an alley behind a meat packing plant, but he couldn’t do it on a sidewalk in the middle of a Chicago street, not with a cop and dozens of other people watching. Without his badge, he was nothing but a power-mad lunatic with a gun. He angrily gave his gun to the policeman, who then handed it to me.

I took the gun and walked away with the badge, while the policeman took the agent to the station, calmly and quietly. Of course, the charges would melt away once the Pinkertons sent someone down to the station and straightened things out, but that was more than enough time to get on the next train out of Chicago. I had just angered the most powerful agency in America. It was probably a good idea to stay at the University for a while.

Besides, I clearly had some preparations to make. I was in poor physical shape and ill-suited for combat. These relics were clearly capable of influencing the behavior of any normal person who found them. I was protected by the knowledge that had been granted me by the Apothecary, but anyone else would be at risk. I needed to train myself in self-defense, and I needed to keep the Rod of Asclepius close at hand, or the next relic might get me killed.