Clockwork Souls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  He shucked his forage cap, which was too new to lose, and ducked his head out the narrow portal. How had a lady in her wide skirts wormed herself through a window barely a foot wide? Above the narrow alleyway the sky was bright with the cold new day. The house was sided with boards whitewashed when Franklin Pierce was president. To his astonishment he found he was staring not two yards down into a pallid face some years older than his own, dominated by large brown eyes and surmounted by a brown-plush bonnet. “Is that you, Sam?” Mrs. Inglis quavered. “I am so glad to see you! I used to be able to shin down ropes all the time when I was a girl, but I find I am sadly out of practice.”

  A number of words burst from the lieutenant’s lips that should not be voiced in the presence of the wife of one’s commanding officer. From the manure-clogged alleyway three stories below the men set up a shout. Mrs. Inglis glared down over her shoulder at them. “Go away, you lewd creatures! You may not look up my skirts, I simply forbid it!”

  “Mrs. Inglis, can you climb up again? Even a little? Yes, that’s the way! Now, your hand. Yes, yes . . . Christ on a crutch, ma’am! Have you run utterly mad? What will the Colonel say?”

  “Jerry will applaud me,” Mrs. Inglis said, with overweening confidence. Lieutenant McAvers had had a mule like her once, back in New York State—long, rangy, brown, and strong. And as set on her own way as the devil! She shook her brown-plaid woolen skirts down into propriety, pulled her gloves up, and straightened the thick crocheted Shetland-wool shawl around her shoulders. “Lieutenant, you must and shall believe me, as these bumpkins do not. The President is in imminent danger.”

  “President Lincoln?” The lieutenant gaped in horror. “Good God! The nation is at war, ma’am—the Union stands or falls with him!”

  “Everyone of understanding knows that,” she replied tartly. “There is a plot afoot, of international ramifications, to assassinate Mr. Lincoln. Come, quickly! We must be off immediately, to scotch the wicked plan!”

  Sergeant Fanning set himself in the narrow doorway like Horatius at the bridge. “Lieutenant, don’t you let her get her tongue round you. She must be suffering from some female dementia, raving nonsense by the yard like that.”

  “You fat fool,” Mrs. Inglis snapped. “Get out of my road!”

  McAvers snatched up his blue forage cap. “Sergeant, I take full responsibility for the lady. Now if you will excuse us, we have an errand of some urgency.”

  They clattered down the battered stair and out into the cold narrow street. The Potomac had escaped its banks in January and the cobbles were still silted and muddy. A raw wind raised mist from the overflowing gutters, and between the warehouses and shanties the river could be glimpsed running like polished silver beyond the ice cruddling the shallower marshy verge. Mrs. Inglis turned east, striding towards the docks with furious swift steps that made her long skirts billow and her thick shawl flutter like a flag. McAvers trotted in her wake. “What plot is this, Mrs. Inglis? And how did you hear of it? The colonel believed you to be safe at home in Philadelphia! He was horrified to get your wire, that you were immured in Alexandria. If I had not been in Washington this week on the battalion’s business, who could he have called upon to rescue you?”

  “Well, I do not suppose you know of my cousin Anna Leonowens. I don’t think even Jerry does, men not being much interested in crochet.”

  “Crochet?”

  “She is a governess to foreign royalty—in Siam, just fancy. But no one there does any knitting or crochet! Nor is tailoring a Siamese art, if you can lend credence to such a thing. There, they simply tie the breadths of Oriental silk around their bodies for clothing—not a corset, not a petticoat, nor a pair of drawers. It sounds hardly decent, and I do not know how Cousin Anna tolerates it. And so for the past few years I have been sending her crochet cotton by post. And patterns.”

  “Oh Jesus.” Crochet patterns? Was it female flummery after all? “Let us cross over to Washington, ma’am. I’ll put you onto a train back to Philadelphia.”

  “No you shall not, lieutenant! We are going to the wharf, where the Tripolitania docked yesterday! You have heard that King Mongkut of Siam has a great regard for our President? And has sent him a gift?”

  “I had read something of it in the papers, yes—a golden elephant.”

  “Not merely a golden elephant, lieutenant. Airavata is a mechanismic one, a machine able to imitate all the motions of the living beast. Mrs. Leonowens was in the train of the king, when he visited the workshop to inspect the workings.”

  “And what is an American president to do with such a wind-up toy?”

  “I believe King Mongkut’s intent was that Mr. Lincoln should ride it. Airavata is life-sized, lieutenant.”

  “Great God.”

  “The Oriental mind inclines towards mechanical animals—have you read of the great bamboo steam dragon the Chinese brought to London some years ago? And their wicked scientists have even experimented with transferring the soul of the beast into a mechanismic housing.”

  “A lot of work,” McAvers commented. If only she would get to the point! “Why not just create elephants the old-fashioned way? Doing what comes naturally.”

  “A steam-powered mechanical elephant is so much more convenient for transport around the globe, you must agree—no food or water necessary, and you just turn off the boiler during shipment. Airavata was dispatched from Bangkok in November. It took five months for the Tripolitania to round the Horn, and she made port yesterday. All the customs inspections and papers having been processed, the President is to come down to the wharf and accept his gift this very morning. And Mrs. Leonowens sent me a wire, only last week, but it is so complex to transmit a telegraph message from Bangkok to Philadelphia that it has taken all this while to get to me. King Mongkut hired some of the greatest mechanismic artificers in Asia to build the elephant, and one of them is a minion of . . . the Poet King.”

  McAvers would have danced with impatience, except that he was walking too fast. “My dear Mrs. Inglis! Lord Byron is dead a generation ago—gone to his richly deserved damnation. He’s nothing now but a bogey to frighten children with.”

  “He is not dead,” Mrs. Inglis said. “And his scientific crony, Sir Willoughby, is in Bangkok. Mr. Lincoln has been their primary target ever since he signed the Emancipation Proclamation that liberated all Negroes and mechano-Americans. King Mongkut does not know that a bomb has been secreted in the belly of his gift. And when I hurried down to warn Mr. Lincoln the local garrison accused me of loitering suspiciously down at the docks!”

  “Now you’re talking turkey,” McAvers exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “You had me worried it was all a fudge. You may safely leave it all to me, ma’am.” All this female yap—it took a man, to get the thing done! He loosened his revolver in its holster, and took to his heels, sprinting past her and out into the open.

  “Sam! You wait for me!” she cried, but he ignored her. Just before him was the wharf. At the far end the Pioneer Mill building towered up in its many brick stories, and the great vessels were moored at the quays, both steamers and sailing ships. Bales of cotton were stacked against the warehouse walls, and barrels of goods waited in ranks for shipment. He could see immediately where the presentation must be taking place—where a crowd of swells in top hats waited at the largest pier. The stiff wind coming up from downstream cut through his blue coat as he ran full tilt. There was not an instant to waste!

  He came up to the crowd just as a great shout of wonder went up. The sight was so astonishing he stopped in his tracks. A great gold serpent seemed to writhe high above the deck of the Tripolitania, catching the rays of the morning sun. It was not flesh the color of gold, but the real metal. Then a mighty head hove into view, with magnificent flapping ears articulated of strips of gold. Huge curving tusks of genuine ivory were longer than a man and capped at the ends with gold filigree wrought into wreaths of flowers. The eyes were dark glass lenses surrounded by rubies and brilliants, and the gold-fringed a
nd tasseled head-cloth was of green satin embroidered in a thousand vivid hues. With another lurch and a puff of steam from the chimney at the back the entire mechanism clambered out into the weak wintry sunshine. The jeweled howdah on its back flashed in the light, so inexpressibly gaudy it made everyone gasp. Surely those could not be sapphires the size of a fist, capping the handrails? Pearls, dangling in a fringe from the canopy? The thing must be worth a ransom for fifty kings.

  Suddenly McAvers saw what was happening. The great mechanismic beast was treading ponderously down the gangway, setting each tree-trunk leg down with exquisite care. And standing on land was the welcoming crowd in frock coats and tall hats. Far the tallest among them was a familiar lean figure, with his dark chinstrap beard—Abraham Lincoln, the president himself. “Let me through!” McAvers cried. “I am on an errand of life and death!”

  He shoved himself between the broad backs blocking the way. “Hey, watch yourself!” “You have some nerve, sir!” But ignoring all complaint and obstruction he thrust himself forward with frantic speed. If only Mrs. Inglis was wrong! But he did not dare to risk it. Anything was possible in the presence of a wonder like this.

  At last the great golden creature was ashore. Airavata swiveled, trumpeting with a brassy blare that made the entire town ring. The noise echoed eerily back across the river from the leafless forests on the Maryland side. Then the machine beast turned to salute the dignitaries with a flourish of its ivory tusks. The great glittering golden trunk, three yards long, writhed in the air and reached to lovingly encircle the mahout who sat on the embossed golden nape. Well here at least was a small proof of Mrs. Inglis and her cousin Anna’s veracity. When he was set down on the planking it could be seen that the lean little brown fellow was indeed wearing nothing but a piece of unseamed turquoise Oriental silk hitched around his middle. In February, in Virginia? He must be freezing. The mahout clutched an ankus nearly as long as his torso, impossibly bejeweled with sapphires, rubies and diamonds in a crazily opulent salute to the Stars and Stripes. The mahout prostrated himself on the dirty boards before the president, a shocking abasement for a fellow human being—even a black slave would not grovel like that.

  And behind him mighty Airavata bowed down as well. First one leg bent in front, and then the next. Another puff of steam, and then the back end sank majestically down as the mechanical beast couched itself down on the planking. The mahout leaped to his bare feet and bowed deeply, holding the ankus out flat in both brown hands. The president smiled all over his homely face, and bent to hear a word from an undersized Asiatic gentleman dressed in a formal coat and tall hat—possibly the Siamese ambassador? Great God, they were going to mount the beast and ride!

  The lieutenant was close enough now to see the assassination attempt. As the mahout straightened up, he spun the ankus in his hands. The hooked end was lifted high. And the curved iron-tipped spike came down hard, right onto the silk stovepipe hat on Abraham Lincoln’s head. The president dropped like a rock, and with a shout McAvers flung himself forward to seize the mahout by his naked brown ankle. The assassin made to strike at McAvers with the massive ankus, but others were there to knock the weapon aside and throw the mahout to the planking. “The president!” McAvers cried. “What of Mr. Lincoln?”

  But before anyone could reply there was a metallic creak. Steam huffed white into the chilly air, and Airavata surged to its huge golden feet, trumpeting like a dozen military bands. The tremendous brassy noise froze everyone in their tracks. If the metal monster defended its master then McAvers realized they were all doomed. And what if the machine was indeed booby-trapped with an explosive? The controls must be—yes, in the ankus! He scrabbled for the massive staff as it rolled, glittering, under the feet of the terrified onlookers.

  Then there was a shrill cry. “Sam, hand me that staff!”

  “Oh, great God!” He gaped up past the gleaming golden flank. Up on top in the gaudy howdah was a flurry of brown plaid skirts and the flutter of a Shetland shawl.

  Mrs. Inglis clambered into the front-most seat and frowned down over the sapphire-studded rail at the green satin head-cloth on the massive head below. “I don’t see reins, or levers, or handles,” she called. “Oh!”

  Airavata turned. Could real elephants gallop? The mechanismic beast had no turn for speed, but its tree-trunk legs were inexorable as golden pistons. It strode down the wharf as wailing bystanders scrambled out of the way. Mrs. Inglis clung to the howdah rail, the pearl fringe jerking above her brown bonnet. Barrels were smashed, bales of cotton went flying, and a loading crane toppled over with a tremendous splash into the icy water. McAvers ran after and slid his gloved fingers over the gaudy jeweled grip of the ankus. There must be controls here somewhere—how could he recognize them? There were curly Siamese letters in the gold, only just recognizable as writing—would the Siamese ambassador read them, or was he too in on the assassination plot?

  But Mrs. Inglis was doing something. Tying herself to the howdah rail? No, by God—she was unfurling her shawl. It was a substantial square nearly five feet on a side, and with a toss she caught its crocheted fabric onto one of the bits of elaborate golden flower filigree encrusting the end of an ivory tusk. Its eye on that side suddenly hooded, Airavata shook its massive head in the manner of a horse troubled by a fly. Its brazen bellow of annoyance made McAvers’s blood run with ice. The great articulated metal trunk snaked up to swat the obstruction away, and Mrs. Inglis ducked down between the silk-cushioned seats.

  But even a mechanical elephant needs two eyes to steer straight. In its distraction the creature veered over the edge of the wharf and onto the shingle. The soul of the tropical elephant embodied within must not realize that the ice crusted over the shallows was not substantial enough to bear any weight. Airavata strode right out over the gray winter-weary ice, and broke through. It screamed with a shredding sound of metal on metal, dragging first one leg free and then another, before collapsing half onto its side in a wallow of trampled reeds and mire.

  Heedless of his riding boots McAvers waded into the icy muck. Here in the slow-moving shallows the Potomac stank with effluvia and dumped chamber pots. “Quickly, ma’am! No, curse it, leave the shawl!”

  A huge hissing and gouts of steam showed that water was encroaching upon vital systems in the machinery. Mrs. Inglis clambered precariously down over the tumbled scarlet satin cushions. “Sam, I can swim, you know!”

  But after the incident of shinning down a rope McAvers was having none of it. “Cling to my back—may I invite you to grip my neck tightly? No, not with your hands! That’s the way of it, hug my head . . .” In fact her pagoda sleeves and loose mantelet hampered him considerably, and her long skirts quickly became soaked and dragged at his legs. Their combined weight sank his feet into the mud so that icy water poured over the tops of his boots. With a grim effort he waded toward shore, two yards, three—

  The explosion was so near and so loud that he almost could not perceive it. It was like a gigantic hand, swatting him. He was flying through the air, Mrs. Inglis still clinging to his back. He slammed flat as a pancake into a wall.

  Only some while later did he realize that the wall had been made of yielding cotton bales, and not brick. He was alive! He sat up. His nose was bleeding, his ears rang worse than they had after Bull Run. The mass of his revolver had left an indentation on his thigh that was going to be the bruise of the century. A tremendously tall lean figure all in black loomed over him, so tall that he had to crick his neck. For a moment in his befuddlement he thought it was an undertaker. But then he realized—“Mr. President,” he croaked. “You’re alive!”

  “Thanks to you, lieutenant—may I know your name, and that of the lady?”

  Mrs. Inglis stepped in. “This is Samuel James McAvers, sir. Of the 113th New York Volunteer Infantry. And I am Lucinda Inglis, wife of Col. Jeremiah Inglis. He was at Vicksburg and is currently stationed at Cape Fear.” She was soaking wet and disheveled, her bonnet crumpled and her hair coming down in
a snarl of brown braids at the back, but she was not discomposed in the least. “May I confide to you, Mr. President, how all this came about?”

  “If the President is injured, ma’am, he needs a doctor’s attention immediately.”

  “Not in the least, Lt. McAvers,” Mr. Lincoln said. “My tall hat broke the blow.” He was bareheaded, but now held out his tall stovepipe hat for them to see. The crown was punctured by the ankus spike, and the entire top half crushed down by the blow. But within the crumpled cylinder of silk plush McAvers saw flat black strips gummed to the sides. “Mrs. Lincoln has instructed Davis, my hatter, to reinforce all my hats with strips of gutta-percha, for fear of attack. The spike did not even crease my hair. How delighted she will be, to hear that her foresight has paid off so nobly. And you, Mrs. Inglis, have the valor of a soldier’s wife. Tell me all, if you would.”

  Mrs. Inglis poured out her story, cousin Anna in Siam, the crochet patterns, all the womanish flapdoodle. McAvers levered himself squelching to his feet and groaned. She was visibly quite unhurt, lively as a cricket. It seemed very unfair that he was the one with the nosebleed and the pounding headache and what might be a cracked rib. It was going to be the devil, to mount his horse again. And his new forage cap was gone forever, blown halfway to Maryland. One of the president’s bodyguards had a flask, and McAvers felt better for a gulp of cheap whiskey. He wondered if there was any hope of a meal. It was too late for breakfast, but what about luncheon?