The Hour of Peril: The Secret Plot to Murder Lincoln Before the Civil War by Daniel Stashower Page B
Authors: Daniel Stashower
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which they sprang up.
Pinkerton’s family was also expanding rapidly. Twins, Joan and Robert, were born within a year. Pinkerton often spoke of the “unbroken sunshine” his children brought to the house, but storm clouds soon appeared. Another daughter, Mary, would die a few years later at the age of two, and seven-year-old Joan would be carried off by fever soon afterward. Two more daughters followed in time; one of whom, known as Belle, would suffer from poor health all her life, requiring near-constant care.
Professionally, Pinkerton made a fast rise through the ranks. After a year as a deputy sheriff, he won an appointment from Chicago’s mayor to serve as the city’s first—and, for some time, only—official detective. Already, Pinkerton had carved out a reputation for strength and daring; now, as an official detective, he added a rigid, incorruptible code of ethics to his tough-guy image, setting a pattern for future generations of “untouchable” lawmen. Pinkerton, it was said, could not be bought.
At a time when Chicago still retained much of the character of a frontier town, a lawman’s effectiveness could be measured in the number and vehemence of his enemies. By that standard, Pinkerton had no equal. One night in September 1853, as he walked up Clark Street toward home, a gunman stepped out of the darkness and fired a pistol into his back. “The pistol was of large caliber,” reported the Daily Democratic Press, “heavily loaded and discharged so near that Mr. Pinkerton’s coat was put on fire.” His survival was largely a matter of luck; he had developed a habit of walking with his left arm tucked behind his back, as if to add ballast to his top-heavy, loping stride. As the gunman fired from behind, Pinkerton’s arm caught the full force of the shots, probably sparing his life. “Two slugs shattered the bone five inches from the wrist and passed along the bone to the elbow,” according to the Press, “where they were cut out by a surgeon, together with pieces of his coat.” By the time he returned to duty, Pinkerton’s reputation had taken on a mythic dimension: Even bullets couldn’t stop him.
Soon, Pinkerton took a position as a special mail agent with the United States Postal Service, where he became embroiled in a sensational, high-profile robbery. At the time, the Chicago post office was all but overwhelmed with complaints from local businessmen about bank drafts and postal orders—representing huge sums of money—that routinely went missing in the mail. Post office officials, fearing legal reprisals, assigned Pinkerton to investigate.
Pinkerton went undercover to get a firsthand look at the situation, an approach he would use again and again in years to come. Posing as a mail sorter, or “piler,” he spent several weeks pulling shifts at Chicago’s main postal depot. While hauling mailbags and working the sorting table, Pinkerton managed to ingratiate himself with a coworker named Theodore Dennison, praising the “swift and nimble” manner in which his new friend handled letters and packages. Dennison warmed to the flattery, boasting that his fingers were “so sensitive that he knew when a letter contained a penny or a dollar.” The remark struck Pinkerton as notably suspicious. Soon, he observed the nimble-fingered clerk slipping envelopes into his pockets.
Dennison, Pinkerton learned, had a brother who had previously been arrested for mail theft. These “familial associations,” together with several more incidents of pilfering, led Pinkerton to believe that he’d gathered all the evidence he needed. On the following Saturday morning, he brought a Cook County deputy to the sorting office to make the arrest as Dennison left the building. The postal clerk tried to flee as the deputy moved in, but he soon found himself sprawled facedown in the dirt—“as pale as ashes”—with Pinkerton pinning his arms behind his back.
To Pinkerton’s distress, Dennison’s
Pinkerton’s family was also expanding rapidly. Twins, Joan and Robert, were born within a year. Pinkerton often spoke of the “unbroken sunshine” his children brought to the house, but storm clouds soon appeared. Another daughter, Mary, would die a few years later at the age of two, and seven-year-old Joan would be carried off by fever soon afterward. Two more daughters followed in time; one of whom, known as Belle, would suffer from poor health all her life, requiring near-constant care.
Professionally, Pinkerton made a fast rise through the ranks. After a year as a deputy sheriff, he won an appointment from Chicago’s mayor to serve as the city’s first—and, for some time, only—official detective. Already, Pinkerton had carved out a reputation for strength and daring; now, as an official detective, he added a rigid, incorruptible code of ethics to his tough-guy image, setting a pattern for future generations of “untouchable” lawmen. Pinkerton, it was said, could not be bought.
At a time when Chicago still retained much of the character of a frontier town, a lawman’s effectiveness could be measured in the number and vehemence of his enemies. By that standard, Pinkerton had no equal. One night in September 1853, as he walked up Clark Street toward home, a gunman stepped out of the darkness and fired a pistol into his back. “The pistol was of large caliber,” reported the Daily Democratic Press, “heavily loaded and discharged so near that Mr. Pinkerton’s coat was put on fire.” His survival was largely a matter of luck; he had developed a habit of walking with his left arm tucked behind his back, as if to add ballast to his top-heavy, loping stride. As the gunman fired from behind, Pinkerton’s arm caught the full force of the shots, probably sparing his life. “Two slugs shattered the bone five inches from the wrist and passed along the bone to the elbow,” according to the Press, “where they were cut out by a surgeon, together with pieces of his coat.” By the time he returned to duty, Pinkerton’s reputation had taken on a mythic dimension: Even bullets couldn’t stop him.
Soon, Pinkerton took a position as a special mail agent with the United States Postal Service, where he became embroiled in a sensational, high-profile robbery. At the time, the Chicago post office was all but overwhelmed with complaints from local businessmen about bank drafts and postal orders—representing huge sums of money—that routinely went missing in the mail. Post office officials, fearing legal reprisals, assigned Pinkerton to investigate.
Pinkerton went undercover to get a firsthand look at the situation, an approach he would use again and again in years to come. Posing as a mail sorter, or “piler,” he spent several weeks pulling shifts at Chicago’s main postal depot. While hauling mailbags and working the sorting table, Pinkerton managed to ingratiate himself with a coworker named Theodore Dennison, praising the “swift and nimble” manner in which his new friend handled letters and packages. Dennison warmed to the flattery, boasting that his fingers were “so sensitive that he knew when a letter contained a penny or a dollar.” The remark struck Pinkerton as notably suspicious. Soon, he observed the nimble-fingered clerk slipping envelopes into his pockets.
Dennison, Pinkerton learned, had a brother who had previously been arrested for mail theft. These “familial associations,” together with several more incidents of pilfering, led Pinkerton to believe that he’d gathered all the evidence he needed. On the following Saturday morning, he brought a Cook County deputy to the sorting office to make the arrest as Dennison left the building. The postal clerk tried to flee as the deputy moved in, but he soon found himself sprawled facedown in the dirt—“as pale as ashes”—with Pinkerton pinning his arms behind his back.
To Pinkerton’s distress, Dennison’s
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