A few one-shots chronicling the life of Booker Dewitt before he went to Columbia. Bear with me if there are a few errors with Booker or the timeline. I'm pretty sure I did alright though considering how long I researched him. They will primarily feature Booker and Elizabeth's mother, Annabelle. Yes, that is her biological mother's name. I was pretty surprised myself.
A Pinkerton Second
New York, 1892
"Alright, boss says to take in as little workers to the cops as possible. Get em' all to go home and teach em' when they come back that they better not do this again," said Davies as the Pinkertons pulled their wagon up to the Mill.
The men loaded their pistols and shotguns, preparing to strike against the more rebellious workers. To even kill them.
"I'd also like to remind all you gentlemen that this is Booker Dewitt's last riot."
The other Pinkertons turned their gaze to a nervous Booker who gnawed on his lower lip. He couldn't be more elated that this was his last raid with the Pinkertons. The past three had been so stressful what with his new method of detaining unruly workers.
"Congrats, Dewitt," grunted Paul, hopping out the back of the wagon and loading his Tommy Gun. "Now, let's get on with this, it's late."
Booker gave a nod of acknowledgement and exited as well. Davies joined him.
"Alright, Paul and Ken, you'll guard the wagon. Pete, to the workers on the left of the mill, I'll take the ones in the center building and Booker, take those on the right. Remember, casualties acceptable. We ready?"
Booker stared at the flames of the torches that illuminated the riot before them. The workers had already committed the essential acts of vandalism. Breaking equipment. Painting the slurs on the building. Some chanted and marched with signs. Some beat at the buildings and crying out that they would burn the place to the ground if they had to.
An empty threat, Booker had learned. That had only happened one time and after realizing that no place to work meant no job meant no raise in wages, it hadn't happened again.
Booker gently stroked the mouth of one of the horses that carried the wagon and walked determinedly to the right side of the building. He cocked his shotgun and exhaled through his nose. Out of the corner of his eye, Booker watched Ken and Davies shout at the workers, words of warning.
Davies loved his job. Loved to take the workers down, not in. Crippling them so they couldn't work ever again. He'd turned many men homeless and impoverished their families more than they'd already been.
"Hey!" Booker shouted, approaching the rioting workers.
They continued to holler and beat at the building with crowbars. One was holding a sign that read "NO RAISE, NO WORKERS, NO PRODUCT!" while the others hoisted his blazing torch higher in the sky.
"HEY!" Booker roared louder.
Still no reaction.
Booker sighed and fired his shotgun at the stars. The worker's heads finally turned in Booker's direction. He took another deep breath and aimed at them. Almost simultaneously they raised their hands in surrender. Some even dropped their weapons. One of them rushed at Booker, crying out in defiance. He reared his crowbar behind his head. With one hand Booker grabbed the worker's wrist and head butted him. The man dropped the crowbar as Booker twisted his arm behind his back.
"Go to the side of the building! Now!" roared Booker, holding the shotgun to the worker's side.
The men walked anxiously to the side of the building, some even still with raised hands.
"I'm-I'm sorry. I have a family," Booker's hostage croaked.
"Shut the hell up and walk," he growled in response.
When they reached the side of the building, Booker looked over his shoulder to see if Davies or Ken was following him. Nope. Coast was clear.
Once out of sight, Booker shoved his hostage at the other workers. They embraced their coworker and stared at Booker, wide eyed.
Booker rested his shotgun on his shoulder and took a step towards the men.
"Now you all have two choices," he began. "First choice, I fire a few bullets at the moon and you all limp home acting like I roughed you up and return to work tomorrow, hoping your boss takes you back."
They all exchanged looks of confusion and murmured to one another. Why wasn't he aiming his gun at them? Why hadn't he shot anyone? What was the young Pinkerton's game?
"The second choice is you continue to rebel, I fire some bullets and you pray they hit an arm or leg and not your heart; then those of you not passed out from the pain get taken to the police station, lose your job and spend weeks in the unemployment line while your families starve. Choice is yours."
Booker was relieved to see most of the workers were older. His bit about families probably struck a chord with them, making this a lot easier than the last time he had performed this stunt.
"What's the catch? What's the catch if we walk away?" a voice piped up from one of the dozen workers.
Booker shrugged, but his face was unreadable.
"You have to pretend to limp all the way home tonight and look like a weak son of a bitch who had the shit beaten out of him."
"Why? Why do this? What's in it for you?" questioned a man in the front.
"I'm supposed to take in as little workers as possible. Your boss wants you back at work and obedient. Not locked in a cell or too crippled to work. Helps my reputation if you leave unscathed and go back to work," he lied.
'It's the only way to undo what I've done...'
That was the real reason. Also the reason behind him quitting the Pinkertons tonight.
Silence washed over them again. Booker gave them another moment to think before responding.
"We don't have all damn night. Start limping home," growled Booker.
One man began to limp away. It only took a few seconds for more to follow. A man threw his torch to the ground reluctantly and stomped it out with his work boot before stalking off. Booker fired his shotgun into the sky, one round after the other. The sounds of other bullets sounded off from the other side of the building.
After all the shots had been fired, Booker let his gun fall limply to his side and glanced over his shoulder. More workers, ones who were actually injured, walked off into the night.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Booker's brows furrowed and he turned back around. A man, even younger than Booker remained. The one who had been holding the sign.
"You better move on out of here, kid. You're gonna get into trouble running your mouth at me," Booker warned.
"I got nothing to lose, Pinkerton. No children. No wife. I ain't leavin'."
"Don't make me beat the hell out you. I'm tired," drawled Dewitt.
The young man threw down his sign and took an angry step towards Booker.
"I'm not like them. I ain't a coward. You can't get me to back down," the boy snarled.
Booker rolled his eyes and loaded up his shotgun, lazily.
"You're all talk. You don't scare me."
"Yeah, you're very brave," he said sarcastically.
"I'll prove it!"
The boy lunged at Booker, removing a wrench from the pocket of his trousers. Booker groaned. The kid wasn't even approaching him properly for an attack and when he went to swing that wrench, he'd stumble.
Sure enough, the boy went to hit Booker with the wrench. Booker dodged it and the boy staggered, dropping it. He turned back at Booker who punched him in the temple. The boy fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Booker saddled his shotgun and picked the unconscious young man up, tossing him over his shoulder.
"Almost made it out. Almost finished the last one with no prisoners. Figures," mumbled Booker walking back to the wagon.
By the end of it all Davies had killed one man, sent ten home injured and permanently crippled two. Ken brought back three prisoners sending ten home brutally injured. The ride to the station was long. Davies laughed at the pleadings of the men he had wounded and said he looked forward to the next raid. He pitied Booker for missing out.
Booker couldn't be happier he wouldn't be present for it.
The police met the men and the detained workers outside. Some of them finally rousing from their unconsciousness. They were locked in cells. Some mumbling contact information of their wives and parents. The boy Booker had arrested managed to get out that his name was Charles. Booker tried to ignore it. He had no interest in learning the identities of the people he attacked. Bail was ten dollars or they'd have to sit it out over night.
"Well, I say we toast Booker Dewitt. He was only with us for three months but for eighteen years old he was a hell of a Pinkerton," Davies said removing a bottle of whiskey from the box on the wagon.
He poured it into the tin coffee cups that were scattered about the seats and back.
"To Booker Dewitt," said Davies, raising his cup.
"To Booker," both Ken and Paul said.
Pete was long gone. Back home with his wife and newborn son.
"What are you off to do, Booker? You've been what? A soldier and a Pinkerton? What line of work could you possibly be interested in?" Davies asked.
"Looking to become a P.I.," he responded swallowing some whiskey.
Questions of Booker's ability to run his own agency echoed amongst them. He met ever skeptic comment with a shrug and honest of answer of 'I guess I'll wait and see' or 'who knows?'
There was the sound of loud hooves from behind them. The men turned to see a large horse galloping down the street and towards the station.
"Someone's finally come to bail out their loved one," Paul scoffed.
"I'm betting a father," Davies added.
Booker shook his head.
"No. I bet it's a brother."
The men squinted into the night trying to make out the gender of the person approaching.
"Well, I'll be damned..." breathed Paul.
It was a young woman. About Booker's age. She pulled the reigns of the horse, halting him and slid off. This was rare. Only a handful of times had the men seen a woman come to bail out one of the workers. Booker shook his head. Most of the time the women had no money and begged for the police to let their loved one go. Ken and Paul always found it amusing where Davies found it aggravating and Booker sad.
She didn't go straight inside though. Instead the young woman straightened her long, green skirt and white blouse, then pulled her coat tighter around herself. It was far too large. She stormed over to the men, her dark hair in a ponytail over her shoulder.
"Which one of you took in Charles?" she said, holding up a sign.
"What?" snapped Davies.
"He was protesting at work tonight. This is his sign. I found it at the mill and he hasn't come home. That means he's here. Which one of you took pleasure in arresting a fifteen year old instead of returning him home to his sister?" replied the woman.
Booker set down his whiskey, standing up straight from where he had been leaning on the wagon.
"I took in Charles," he said folding his arms.
She stomped over to him. Booker felt electrocuted by her wide, blue eyes. Her pink, bow shaped lips were in a defiant line. She raised her hand and slapped him across the face.
"Hey, now, little lady," Paul sniggered taking a step towards her.
Booker held up a palm, impeding Paul then rubbed his jaw. Slowly he turned his eyes to the young woman who was apparently Charles' sister.
"My job isn't to return unruly workers to their sisters. My job is to detain people rioting. He tried to attack me. You're lucky I didn't shoot," Booker replied, his eyes narrowed. "Now, why don't you go retrieve him yourself and head on home. This is no place for you to be at n-"
He was cut off by her knuckles hitting his jaw.
"Alright, that's it. I'm getting the cops," grunted Davies.
"No," Booker protested, wiping some blood off his now busted lip. "Let her go. I think the lady has got it all out of her system now."
She held his gaze for another moment then turned on her heel and marched inside. Booker smirked and relaxed against the wagon.
"Damn. I don't believe I've seen that happen before," remarked Paul.
"Yeah, Dewitt. I would've shown her a little justice."
"She's just a kid, Davies. Worried about her brother," Booker sighed.
A few drinks and about twenty minutes later, the young woman exited the station with 'Charles' in tow. With shoulders slumped and head bowed, he cast a glance at Booker who quickly averted his eyes. He could still feel the boy's grateful gaze on him though.
"C'mon, Charlie," said the girl gently, draping her oversized coat on his shoulders.
Booker could hear the hooves galloping off. That was the sound of one of his many sins being redeemed. But he was still nowhere near being forgiven.
What do you think? Again, go easy on me as far as timeline goes. I know Booker is sixteen when he battles at Wounded Knee then eighteen when he leaves to work for the Pinkertons then leaves them a few months later and then has Anna when he almost twenty..