The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  The unspeakable dead eyes of a dozen natives stared at me, unseeing. I shuddered and could not move for several moments. I’m quite sure my own eyes must have been wide with terror. I wanted to turn away, replace the curtain, and forget what I saw, but instead stood rooted staring at the blind eyes until my presence of mind returned. It began reeling, but I forced myself to a calm, efficient frame of thought.

  After several moments, I collected myself and stepped back from the closet, returning the curtain to its former position. I pulled it away one more time to see if perhaps I had imagined what was behind it. The eyes again stared at me without seeing me. I wanted so much to not look, but I had to observe and surmise. With revulsion I touched one of the undead natives. It stepped back easily and knocked into another standing behind. That one in turned knocked into another. Their eyes never moved, their faces never expressed emotion. They did not speak.

  I looked from one blank face to the next and then to the row behind and then the one behind that. I noticed a sort of shrinking and withdrawing in the bodies of those furthest back. It was as if they were not decaying, but disappearing, their flesh not rotting but dissolving. The older ones closest to the back wall were no longer firm and had lost their eyes completely.

  “Hello,” I whispered in my version of Swahili, the most common tongue in this region. Recognising the size and features as those of the local Hadzabe tribe, however, I knew I would get no response from these mannequins. It wasn’t the language that prevented intercourse, though. The ears heard no more than the eyes saw.

  With no small effort, I held two fingers to the throat of the nearest, seeking a pulse. I found none. I retrieved my pocket watch and held the back to its mouth. No moisture formed. It had neither heartbeat nor breath. They did not live, but somehow did not corrupt in a natural way either. It was as if the fluids in their bodies evaporated and what remained had shrunk. I became intrigued more than frightened. I knew I was close.

  It occurred to me then just how vulnerable Clara was. Young and naïve, she was innocent of the ways of the world. Although I am not a crude man, I know what a disingenuous cad will do when spotting prey, and Clara was presently in a position to be set upon. I feared for her. Her danger propelled me away from the ghastly scene. I raced back to the main building and stopped just inside the doorway. The sight sickened me just as the sight behind the thatched curtain had.

  I recognised the vacancy in Clara’s eyes immediately. Upon ascertaining the direness of the situation, I looked about the room, stalling while I fumbled in my mind over what was to be done. I feigned ignorance which he easily accepted as I guessed he would. He wore his pride of station on his sleeve: his upturned chin requiring a downward gaze when speaking, his stiff gait. This foolish arrogance worked in my favour as he willingly believed me to be no more educated than the natives of this backward land.

  “It is amazing,” I said, looking about the room. In truth, it was. Man-shaped toys, small wagons, miniature steam engines all traversed the room with no apparent propulsion. Balloon-like conveyances floated in the air, mini dirigibles they were. It was only later that I learned the horrible truth of the objects’ ambulatory power.

  I stepped in, seemingly for a closer view. In actuality, I sought a weapon. Something with which to engage Bourne. I had no idea of his powers. Shrewsbury has never produced excellence in athletics as far as I could remember; however, he was older than I and may have distinguished himself at his school before my time at Eton and then sunk into unglamorous anonymity.

  “Please come in, Mr. Baraba, is it?” he said, using my familiar name and emphasising “Mr.” to have a joke on a poorly paid retainer.

  He made a barely concealed movement to retrieve what I later learned was a music box from Clara’s stilled hand. I had no understanding of the move’s importance, but later learned the chilling truth.

  “This is my church,” he said.

  “It’s an odd sort of creed, isn’t it?” I answered, touching one of the floating objects as it passed by.

  He mumbled something about the human spirit or perhaps a bit of that new philosophy from Schopenhauer. I could not hear him so I did not respond immediately, but continued walking slowly through the room, keeping an eye out for an opportunity. Finally I saw a life-sized toy soldier on the side wall opposite Clara and him. It was a tin replica of a previous century’s French soldier complete with a correctly rendered rapier. My own training in Italian defensive arts is extensive; I excelled at the sport at Eton. My plan unfolded before me. I caressed the soldier’s uniform for a moment as if to see if it was real. When my chance came, I released the rapier from the model’s grip, turned, and rushed toward him.

  “Careful!” he shouted, checking my forward momentum long enough to add, “If you destroy anything in this room, you destroy a human soul.”

  The words confused me. I continued moving in to him, but at a slower rate. I ruminated on the meaning of his words until my mind came to its horrible understanding. Lady Lovelace’s directive and his ejaculation commingled in my brain. I saw at once the occupants of the closet, the whirring objects in the room, and Clara’s silent form.

  He held out a small red ball toward me. “Every object, such as this ball, holds a human being.” My thoughts congealed as he continued, confirming my dread: “Someone as forthright and virtuous as you would never unthinkingly kill.”

  He referred to himself, of course, but held the ball up as an example.

  “Are you saying these contraptions are alive?” I said, keeping my eyes on him and no longer looking about the room.

  “I know they are, and let me assure you they are happier now than they were before.”

  My anger mounted at his hubris and self-righteous assertion that he could know better how a man is to be made happy. I was beside myself and prepared to strike, but at the last second, he began to hum. The music box was turning and he sang along with it in a thick, nasal voice. I recognised the somewhat stilted German melody of Schubert’s Nacht und Traume.

  Holy night, you sink down;

  Dreams, too, drift down

  His face changed then. He assumed an unblinking stare, vacant and almost blind. I recognised something in his look that I had not seen in several years: a technique of the late Mesmer. Everything fell into place. Instantly I realised the consequences of the situation concerning Clara. She was dis-ensouled and her body would eventually decay, just as those of the older natives in the closet had. She was, no doubt, trapped in the music box and I had no way to return her essence to its rightful place. My blood chilled. I was loath to kill Bourne — who else could reverse this heinous process? — yet I had to defeat him!

  As I advanced on him he intensified the exercise he played at. A handy practitioner, he would have trapped me soon enough just as he had trapped Clara and the others if not for the fact that I too have learned the art. I added my tenor to his baritone.

  Like your moonlight through space,

  Through the quiet hearts of men

  I stepped closer. He held the ball before me, but I stared only at him.

  They listen with delight

  Calling out when day awakens

  He looked back at me as we sang to the tinny rendition of Schubert emanating from the music box.

  Return, holy night!

  Fair dreams, return!

  The moment of consummation came. He glanced at the ball only for a second, just long enough.

  Strait of Gibraltar

  October 23, 1851

  My Dear Lady Ada Lovelace,

  I am a broken man and sinking into a state of incapacity. Every day I experience fewer moments of lucidity. I hastily write this now while I am able. I will place it in the hands of a Dr. Wellstone who is returning to England on the same steamer on which I am travelling. I entrust this missive to him as he is an honourable man and will see to it that what remains of me as well as my cargo are returned to you.

  The cargo consists of a large wooden crate contai
ning Clara Hensel. She is not dead, nor is she alive. Her dis-ensouled body will begin corruption at a later date, I know not when. Until then she must remain in the box and be placed in hiding on your estate.

  I have had to concoct a story of my and Clara Hensel’s abduction by Arab traders via the Zanzibar route. I paid some members of the Chagga to disseminate the lie. The Rebmanns will have dispatched a search party for her by now. They are certainly several days behind me, but I have no idea of their connections and capabilities, or where they will search. If I perchance cross paths with their agents and am recognised, they will detain me for questions. In my current state I will be unable to defend myself and, at any rate, no one would believe my story. It makes little difference, though, as I am surely lost wherever I go.

  Within the crate is the answer to your question and the object of my mission. Clara’s soul has been transferred to the music box placed next to her head in the casket. The transference was effected by one Bernard Bourne. I do not know his motive, but he has perfected a method by which transference can take place without complicated machinery.

  I do not understand the exact procedure, but Bourne has succeeded in producing the effect in himself and has transferred his own soul to an inanimate object. I know of no means of undoing his or Clara’s predicament and since Bourne is now incommunicado, Fraulein Hensel will remain as she is.

  The things I have seen weigh heavily on my mind and every day I sink further into melancholia as a result. These extreme feelings of despair are accompanied by a loss of my higher senses. I am seeing apparitions. Certain things I encountered in Africa and had hoped to forget keep popping into my mind’s eye. It is as if I am still operating in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. I walk the hold of this ship at night and when I turn the corner to the galley, I believe I see a small red ball rolling to an unseen hatch. When I give chase, I am led to a dead end with the ball no longer in sight.

  Dr. Wellstone has studied with the late Johann Friedrich Herbart and recognises my symptoms as an upwelling of the subconscious into the conscious mind. I have lost my powers of reasoning and so cannot follow his argument but it matters not. He cannot help me; I am a broken man.

  You will be relieved to know that, although your worst fears have been realised, the cause of them, Bernard Bourne, is now incapacitated and his efforts contained.

  I bid you farewell; I will, no doubt, not recognise you when we meet again.

  Baraba Ubongo

  Nuthin’ but a Man

  C.L. Anderson

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Due to the historical period it describes, this story contains racial language some readers may find offensive.

  “I’m telling you, Mr. Sheridan,” O’Malley stuck his thumbs in his belt. “They won’t do it.”

  I looked at the Irishman, and tried not to let my thoughts show in my face. O’Malley led the gang of what’s called “terriers” on the railroad — men who clear the way for the tracks — and O’Malley’s terriers had a right to be angry. Three more of them had just died trying to move the C&O’s tunnel one yard further through the Big Bend mountain.

  “You know my hands are tied.” I gestured toward the eastern edge of this ragged, green Virginia valley that had been home and prison through the dog days of summer. “If the men won’t work, they won’t get paid.”

  “They’d rather live. The devil’s in that mountain, Mr. Sheridan, no mistake.”

  I wanted to tell him not to be a fool, but I didn’t. No mountain is your friend when your job is to hollow out its guts, and Big Bend was putting up a hard fight. Its stone gave way only reluctantly to our best efforts. O’Malley and his terriers were hard men out of the coal and iron mines. They knew how to work their drills and they knew how to set the charges. But it had only been two weeks since I’d taken over at Big Bend, and we’d already laid eight men into their graves. Three just yesterday.

  I felt the mountain at my back, waiting to see if we’d finally give up our pin-scratching in its side. But I’d been hired on for just this work; to drive a tunnel for the Chesapeake and Ohio Railway through Big Bend, and my contract said if I didn’t have it done by the twenty-first of September, I’d forfeit half my pay.

  It was the twenty-first of August, and we weren’t anywhere close to done with the tunnel, never mind the track.

  “Will you talk to them?”

  “Well, now, Mr. Sheridan, I’ll do my best.” O’Malley pulled off his red neckerchief and mopped his brow. The sun was barely up over the valley rim, and it was already hot as a Turkish bath. By noon it would be insufferable. “But I’m makin’ no promises, mind.”

  Which left me with only one card left to play. Think of Rosamund, I reminded myself. Your sister is depending on you. “I’m due a bonus if we get through the mountain on schedule. If we make it, five hundred dollars of that goes to the men.” My fists clenched in my pockets. “You’ll share it out, of course.”

  “Five hundred you say?” O’Malley rubbed his chin, the bristles rasping hard against his leather-tough hand. “Well, now. I’d say a bonus will go a long way toward persuading the reluctant.”

  “You’ll tell the men I promised two-fifty and pocket the rest.” I didn’t bother to disguise the contempt in my eyes. But O’Malley shook my hand before he started back to his gang where they squatted around their fire pit. I turned back to my tent, trying not to think too much about what I’d done. My foreman, Archibald Croft, stood under the shelter’s canvas awning, his long, sharp face thoroughly sour.

  I shrugged. We had to get the line through. I had to get the line through. Rosamund needed to be somewhere warm and free of the ague before the winter set in. If it took a bribe to an Irish thug to get her out of Boston, it was a small price.

  I took a deep breath, intending to say I’d handled the situation, but a new sound cut me off. It rose up above the wind in the trees and under the harsh complaining of the terriers. Men’s voices, but not the high tones of the furious Irish. This was deeper, broader.

  Musical.

  Croft turned his head, and so did I, and one by one, the terriers stopped their shouting to listen.

  “Well, well, well.

  O, my Lord.

  O, my Lordy.

  Well, well, well.”

  They walked out of the trees; A crew of dusty blacks in gingham shirts and canvas pants, all of them barefoot, marching across the rough ground. A ruddy-faced man on a yellow mule set the pace. He sported a broad brimmed hat, a patched leather coat, and the biggest walrus moustache I’d ever seen. His rifle was slung casually under his arm.

  The blacks walked with their right hands on the shoulder of the boy in front of them, and as they walked they sang.

  “I’ve got a rock.

  You got a rock.

  Rock is death.

  Oh, my Lordy.

  Oh, my Lord.”

  Coming into the shadow of the mountain that was killing us, I’m not ashamed to admit their song made my skin crawl. Behind the men, a stout quadroon girl, hair bound modestly in a red check scarf, led a donkey loaded down with bundles, bags and pots — the cook for the gang I supposed. She too sang, her voice high and thin over the men’s.

  “Rock is death.

  O, my Lordy”

  I eyed Croft who still had his hand on his gun.

  “‘Morning,” I said to the overseer as he reigned up his mule. The blacks all stopped and stood still in their line, eyes straight ahead. The girl’s pans gave a final clang and fell silent. “Is there something I can do for you?” I went on.

  “‘Morning!” The man leaned down and offered me a broad, horny hand. “Jacob Emmett. Might you be the boss here?”

  “Louis Sheridan,” I answered him. Jacob Emmett had a huge wen under one eye that squeezed it shut, giving him a leering, lopsided appearance. The big wad of tobacco bulging in his cheek didn’t help his looks any.

  “Pleased to know you, Mr. Sheridan,” Emmett said, “As you can see I’ve got here with me two dozen prime nigra hands,
every one trained to hard labour, including mining and track-laying. I thought you might be able to put my boys to work.”

  “My budget doesn’t run to buying slaves.” I told him, and started to turn away.

  “Who said buy?” shot back Emmett. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement on a weekly rate. How much are you paying the Irish there? Four apiece? Five?” He spat in the direction of the terriers. “I can let you have all these prime hands for thirty dollars a week.”

  Croft had come up to join me, eyeing Emmett with even more scepticism than I did. I didn’t like slave labour. I’d seen the markets in Boston and Baltimore and it was a barbarous show. But I was behind time, and the C&O directors were breathing down my neck. Mr. Post had made it plain; the C&O was in a race to push into the western territories. The company that got there first was going to reap a golden harvest, especially once the promises of the self-guiding engines and the telegraph that was going to replace the steam ponies and pigeons panned out.

  I’d bet half my pay I could do it. I’d gotten the Sandy Bottom job in on time and under budget, hadn’t I? Of course I could do it.

  I’d bet Rosamund’s winter in Italy and a good trained nurse to care for her that I could, and I’d had a new message demanding updates by steam pigeon just this morning. I had to have something to tell them besides “Three more Irish dead.”

  “The mountain’s no place for field hands,” snapped Croft.

  In response, Emmett swung himself off his mule, broke his gun, and tucked it under his arm. “John Henry, Skinny Shake.” He fished a key out from his vest pocket. “You’re gonna show the man how you handle this mountain.”

  The girl took the key and scooted around the chained gang to unlock the leg irons from the two he’d named. Smart man. He wasn’t going to bend himself over among those silent black men with their key in his hands.

  But she hadn’t even got that key in the first lock when we heard a new noise; a rumbling crash that at first I took to be thunder. Then, I saw the eastern tree-line shudder, and break apart.