Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 441 Acting First and Reporting Later, with Federal Authorization—This is Pinkerton! (Bonus Chapter 11 for October Monthly Tickets)

Upon seeing the coin in Lionel's hand, Andrew Carnegie's face drained of all color instantly!

His facial muscles stiffened, his smile froze completely, and then shattered into a look of embarrassment and annoyance.

Of course he recognized what it was, and he knew even better what kind of clandestine operating system it represented!

He wasn't that foolish guide who would naively believe it was some kind of good deed "for the good of the workers."

His eyes were fixed on the tin coin, then he suddenly looked up at Lionel, his eyes filled with shock, anger, and panic at being exposed.

He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but for a moment he couldn't think of any suitable words.

Lionel did not give Andrew Carnegie a chance to defend himself, coldly saying, "Mr. Carnegie, writers will always stand with the weak."

If the workers who toil in your mines only receive these 'tin coins,' then the 'rewards' we receive are also only worth these 'tin coins'!

He didn't say another word or even glance at Carnegie. He simply put the tin coin back into his pocket, as if it were just an ordinary commemorative coin.

Then, Lionel turned around and nodded slightly to Zola and the others.

Zola, Daudet, Goncourt, Huysmann, Maupassant… everyone turned around, no longer glancing at Carnegie, silently and resolutely following Lionel.

The group boarded the carriage that was parked outside the mansion, ready to take them to the train station, leaving the steel tycoon standing there, his face turning pale and then purple.

The carriage wheels rolled away from Carnegie's mansion, a symbol of wealth and power.

Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was somewhat somber. Zola, gazing out the window at the rapidly receding Pittsburgh landscape, couldn't help but mutter a curse under his breath: "Hypocrite! Utter hypocrite!"
On the one hand, they squeeze every last drop of blood and sweat from laborers using 'tin coins,' and on the other hand, they give writers hundreds or thousands of dollars in rewards. It's disgusting!

Alphonse Daudet sighed: "He thought he could buy our pens with money and cigars—he almost succeeded! Luckily, Lionel..."

At that moment, a stranger who had boarded the train before them spoke up: "Gentlemen, hello. My name is James, James McParlan."

I am a detective from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. My colleagues and I are hired to escort you safely to your next destination—San Francisco.

Lionel was startled and looked closely at the man in front of him. He had a big beard, wore glasses, and was dressed in a well-fitting black suit. He looked very ordinary.

Maupassant raised an eyebrow: "The Pinkerton Detective Agency?"

Yusman was also somewhat puzzled: "Detective? Escort? We're just writers, do we need to use detectives for escort?"

Zola, Daudet, and others mostly felt that the arrangement was a bit of an overreaction, probably an exaggerated measure taken by the United States to show its importance.

After all, apart from the mental shock they suffered in Cornellville, their personal safety had never been threatened along the way.

However, upon hearing the names "Pinkton Detective Agency" and "James McParlan," Lionel's heart was instantly stirred.

He knew those two names all too well.

The Pinkerton Detective Agency, founded by Alan Pinkerton in the 1850s, had close ties with the political world at the time.

During the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln was protected by Pinkerton detectives.

Unfortunately, security for the day he was assassinated was not handled by Pinkerton, but by the U.S. Army guards.

However, what truly makes this firm "famous" is its deep involvement in American labor disputes, making it a tool for big capitalists to deal with the labor movement.

During the Civil War, they were adept at infiltrating, subverting, turning, and gathering intelligence, using every means at their disposal; later, they applied these methods to the workers.

James McParlan is Pinkerton's most legendary and controversial detective.

In the 1870s, under the alias "James McKenna," he successfully infiltrated and dismantled the notorious secret organization of Pennsylvania miners, "Molly Maguire."

This experience was later adapted by Conan Doyle into a Sherlock Holmes story, which became a classic work – "The Valley of Fear".

In this era, the Pinkerton Detective Agency possesses greater "law enforcement" power than any other private detective agency in the world, including the United States.

This was because in 1871, Congress allocated $5 to the newly established Department of Justice to create an organization specifically for "investigating and prosecuting those who violate federal laws."
However, this budget was far from sufficient for the investigation department, so the Department of Justice simply outsourced the work to the Pinkerton Detective Agency and gave them a great deal of law enforcement freedom.

Therefore, in some places, the Pinkerton Detective Agency can even override the police department, and it is routine for them to arbitrarily arrest and kill fugitives.

Simply put, for the Pinkerton detectives—

"The police will intervene in what they can handle, and they'll also intervene in what they can't handle. They'll act first and report later, with federal authorization. That's Pinkerton!"

Of course, Lionel only found this out after playing Red Dead Redemption 2, where Pinkerton detectives appeared quite often, and were even villains.

Lionel suppressed his inner turmoil, put on a smile again, and began to chat with James McParlan.

His tone was relaxed: "Mr. McParlan, thank you for the escort. However, I'm a little curious, does traveling by train to San Francisco really require protection?"
Has the railroad in the United States become that dangerous?

James McParlan adjusted his glasses, his expression calm: "Mr. Sorel, the railroads in the east are relatively safe."

Our primary responsibility lies in the Midwest, especially after we approach the western region.

There, the power of federal order and law is sometimes weak.

He paused, then continued his straightforward introduction: "There are also many notorious roaming bandits there, who are extremely rampant."

For example, Jesse James and his gang, as well as the James Young gang, are all ruthless and experienced outlaws.

They specialized in robbing banks, post stations, and trains, and even women and children were not spared. These names seemed somewhat distant and unfamiliar to the French writers in the carriage, more like characters from an adventure novel.

They were skeptical that they would be robbed, especially on a train line, something that had completely disappeared in France, and even Corsicans weren't this crazy.

James McParlan added, "Of course, the most 'famous' one currently active in that area is the 'Black Jazz,' known as the 'Gentleman Thief.'"

Zola was immediately drawn to the title: "'Gentleman Thief'? 'Black Knight'? It sounds like an aristocratic nickname."

Maupassant also became interested: "A robbery gentleman? That's good material for a novel."

James McParlan nodded and explained, "That could be a nickname he gave himself, or it could be something the newspapers gave him."

He mainly operated around California, and his penchant for robbing stagecoach carriages. This guy, well, he's a bit unusual.

Lionel pressed, "Oh, special? What's special about it?"

At this point, James McParlan wore an indescribable expression: "Yes. He usually committed his crimes alone, using only a shotgun."

But he never hurt anyone, and was said to be very polite. Most remarkably, after each successful heist, he wouldn't immediately flee; instead, he would leave a poem at the scene.

Huysman repeated in surprise, "Leave a poem?"

Even he felt that this behavior overturned his understanding of robbers.

James McParlan confirmed again: "Yes, a poem. Usually written on stolen envelopes or slips of paper, a rhyming poem."

His content sometimes boasts about himself, sometimes mocks the police and the rest stop company; this has become his trademark.

After hearing this, Lionel couldn't help but scoff: "Black Jazz, he even left a poem, quite the romantic!"

Just then, the carriage bells jingled, signaling that we had arrived at Pittsburgh train station.

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The journey from Pittsburgh to San Francisco is not a comfortable direct trip.

The U.S. railway system is operated by numerous companies in segments, resulting in a complex network of routes.

They need to get off at hub stations like Chicago and Omaha, squeeze through noisy crowds, find another platform, and transfer to a train from another rail company.

Sometimes you even have to find a hotel to stay in these transit cities for one night.

The nights on the train were particularly unbearable for these French writers who were used to traveling in Europe.

The so-called "sleeper carriages" use folding beds. During the day, they are ordinary seats, but at night, the attendants fold them down to create bunk beds.

Although the decor is somewhat luxurious, the space is extremely cramped, making it difficult to even turn over.

The jolting of the train, the snoring from next door, and the incessant rumble of the tracks made sleep a luxury.

On the very first night, Maupassant complained, "God, this is like a moving coffin!"

His tall frame was cramped and uncomfortable in the narrow bunk.

Food carts were now common, but the prices were so high that Huysmann grimaced, and the food was even more disappointing.

Large chunks of bland roast beef, overcooked vegetables, and coarse bread are a far cry from the refined cooking of a French dining truck.

They began to miss the meals in first class on the Perel, and even found the roasted peacock at the Fifth Avenue Hotel to be adorable.

After tasting the so-called "stew," Daudet gave a scathing critique: "American cooking is the murder of ingredients!"

Fortunately, the ever-changing scenery outside the window showed them the vastness and diversity of the North American continent, making the journey less tedious.

The train first travels through the sprawling industrial towns of Pennsylvania, lined with towering chimneys; then it enters the Ohio River Valley, where greenery begins to increase and gradually fills the view.

As the train entered Illinois, the view suddenly opened up—an endless prairie unfolded before us, rolling green waves reaching to the horizon.

Having grown up in Europe, they had never seen such flat and vast terrain.

Upon entering Nebraska, the scenery became even more desolate.

The land is arid and sparsely vegetated, with no sign of human habitation for hours, only endless wasteland and the occasional farm.

The sky seemed incredibly high and distant, and a profound sense of emptiness and loneliness rose from the depths of everyone's heart.

After passing through Wyoming, the train began its ascent of the Rocky Mountains, the majestic peaks and deep canyons holding their breath.

We then entered Utah, where the vast white salt flats of the Great Salt Lake Basin were dazzling in the sunlight, the lake water was a somber turquoise, and the distant mountains were rugged and strange.

The real challenges begin towards the end of the journey.

The train began its arduous ascent of the treacherous Sierra Nevada Mountains, slowly ascending along the winding mountain railway.

Outside the window were deep canyons and snow-capped peaks, and the air felt cold and thin.

Suddenly, "Squeak—!!!"

A sharp, metallic scraping sound suddenly rang out, and the train abruptly came to a stop!
(Third update complete. Thank you everyone. Extra updates are back! Please vote with your monthly tickets!)
(End of this chapter)