Clockwork Souls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  The president heard Mrs. Inglis’s tale in patient and grave silence. “I shall discuss the matter with the Siamese ambassador, but I suspect that this is not an act of war. The Poet King’s devotees have simply used the king’s gift as a vehicle for their own ends. There is but one point that you may clarify for me, lieutenant. Your gallantry to Mrs. Inglis has been remarkable. Are you perhaps . . . kin?”

  When McAvers realized that the president suspected he was dangling after Lucinda Inglis he blushed to the roots of his hair. Mrs. Inglis grinned at the sight. “Mr. President, you should know that the colonel has a half-sister nearly twenty years younger than himself. Miss Emmelina Inglis accepted Lieutenant McAvers’ hand at Christmas.”

  “The colonel didn’t half like the betrothal, she being but seventeen,” McAvers admitted. “It would not prosper my suit in the least if I had let Mrs. Inglis kill herself saving you. We’re looking to be wed once the war is over. Soon, I hear tell,” he added hopefully.

  “We have had a meeting about a peace settlement.” The president’s deep-set eye glinted. “Not for common gossip, mind you.”

  “Oh no, sir.”

  The garrison had been called out to keep back onlookers and scavengers. A crew of Negro dock workers was just dragging up the first chunks of golden wreckage. Sgt. Fanning watched them sharply as in a clamor of happy comment and excited remark they hoisted a muddy and reed-tangled mass of metal onto the wharf. It was a fragment of elephantine head and shoulder, streaming water. Under the gold-plated skin the gears and pistons and levers that had given Airavata its power could now be seen. The lifelike motion had been driven by the soul of the elephant, presumably now departed. Bits and chunks clattered and tinkled in a costly shower to the dirty planking. The larger portions could easily be salvaged, but the lads of Alexandria would be picking shards of gold out of the reeds for a generation.

  Mr. Lincoln shook his head at the sight. “Lieutenant, as your commander I am now giving you a direct order. When this cruel war is over, go home. Wed your Emmelina, and be happy. I shall inform Col. Inglis that the marriage has my approval. And you, Mrs. Inglis—write to your cousin in Bangkok. Tell Mrs. Leonowens all, and thank her for her timely warning. If ever she comes to the States, I would be pleased to meet her and proffer my personal thanks.”

  Mrs. Inglis dipped in a damp half-curtsey. “Of course, sir.”

  “The secret of leadership,” Mr. Lincoln remarked with a twinkle, “is to command people to do what they incline to anyway. Now, sergeant—have the lieutenant and Mrs. Inglis escorted back to your offices, so they may dry out before their journey home. Ah, and here.” He bent and picked up a fallen bit. “Miss Inglis will be in need of a ring.”

  McAvers gaped at the little stone Mr. Lincoln dropped into his palm. It was one of the rough red rubies that had encircled the great dark lens of Airavata’s eye, relatively tiny compared to the impossibly large gems studding the wreckage but still the size of a comfit. Mrs. Inglis gasped, “Oh! Mr. President, your thanks fully suffice!”

  “Nonsense, Mrs. Inglis. I am a fond husband myself, and I know how the ladies like pretty things. But don’t tell Mr. Fessenden—the Treasury Secretary will dedicate the wreckage to defray our national expenses. Now, here is your carriage—you had better be off, before you catch a chest chill.”

  Sergeant Fanning scowled at Mrs. Inglis but waved Private Buck forward. McAvers quickly handed her up into the borrowed gig, and they were off, back to the garrison headquarters. Only then did McAvers notice that Mrs. Inglis was carefully cupping a Siamese filigree flower in her gloved palms. President Lincoln never failed in courtesy to the ladies. Its gold was wrought so finely that it looked like metal lace.

  Mrs. Inglis spoke to their driver with serene and entirely unshaken confidence. “I shall be needing a large match-box, Private Buck—every man in the Union Army smokes like a chimney, so I am sure such a thing must be lying around your building somewhere. I must get this safely to a jeweler, who can mount it as a brooch! And we shall require hot water, clean towels in quantity, and separate rooms each with a good fire, to dry our clothing at. While we wash up you shall have time to bring up a substantial luncheon—let it not be salt pork and corn bread. And, Sam, if you do not button that stone into your uniform pocket you will infallibly mislay it. It isn’t even ten in the morning yet—I look to be home in Philadelphia for supper.”

  In mute dismay Private Buck rolled an eye at him. McAvers shook his head slightly in reply. It might be possible to kill the Colonel’s wife, but it would take considerably more than Mr. Lincoln’s mechanical elephant to do it.

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  The Crater

  Pati Nagle

  Marie Laveau stepped onto the wharf and gazed around her at a city she had never seen, had never meant to visit. The bustle of Boston was strange, unlike the laissez-faire of the Queen City. Everywhere there were soldiers in blue. The Union army had come to New Orleans too, in 1862, but there they were strangers. Here it was Marie and her daughter who were out of place.

  Among the people gathered to meet those disembarking travelers were an unusual couple: the man was a Negro, dressed in a decent suit of clothes and carrying himself with dignity; the woman was fair, in a plain but graceful gown of green bombazine and fawn gloves, and walked stiffly erect as she came forward. Marie smiled with recognition; it was not a woman at all. It was Mignon.

  “Madame,” said the automaton in a tinny voice Marie remembered well. “Thank you for coming.”

  “How kind of you to meet us,” said Marie.

  She had not seen either of them in the years since they had gained their freedom; Dominic and Mignon had escaped together while Marie had distracted their owner and his people. Dominic had been young then; now he was in his prime, and looked every inch the free man of color. He was no mean laborer, but a skilled mechanic. He had been proud even as a slave; now he carried himself with dignity and his eye gleamed with challenge, though for Marie he had a smile.

  “Madame. I owe you deepest thanks.” He bowed deeply.

  “I am glad to see you looking so well, Dominic. You both seem to have prospered.” She turned to Philomène, ever quiet and deferential, who had come up behind her.

  “This is my daughter, Marie Philomène. Mignon, and Dominic . . .” She realized she had never known his last name.

  “Dubois, Madame. Mignon has also taken the name Dubois,” he said, and turned to Philomène with a smaller bow. “Mademoiselle. An honor to meet you.”

  She returned a prim nod. Dominic offered his arm to Marie, and she accepted his support to the carriage that awaited them.

  She was no longer young; the hair beneath her headdress was now silver. The fire that had once coursed through her limbs had diminished. At home, it was her eldest daughter, Marie Heloïse, who now presided over the gatherings at Bayou St. John.

  The carriage took them to a hotel, an unimposing structure of brick with white columns. Marie suppressed her annoyance; the columns reminded her of the plantation houses. She knew it was merely the fashion, but it made her grit her teeth. They went in to a private parlor where Mignon fussed so about Marie’s comfort that Philomène began to frown.

  “Yes, yes,” Marie said, “Coffee will be fine. Now tell me, what is this endeavor about which you are so exercised? You were very mysterious in your letter.”

  Mignon exchanged a glance with Dominic.

  “We wish to raise a regiment of volunteers for the war,” Dominic said.

  “A regiment of ensouled automata,” added Mignon.

  “The First Massachusetts Automated Engineers.”

  Marie fairly gasped at the audacity of it. “How will you manage? I cannot fund such an enterprise, much as I might wish to.”

  “Madame!” Mignon came as close to looking aghast as her static doll’s face would permit. “We did not ask you here to beg for money.”

  “Funds are not our greatest problem,” said Dominic, “though we must certain
ly raise them. What I am most in need of is men.”

  “You mean recruits?” Marie said.

  Dominic shook his head. “We have enough automata to fill the ranks—more than enough, indeed—but the army will not accept them as officers. The regiment must be led by men. White men,” he added with a frown.

  “I fear I can be of no help to you,” Marie said. “Most of the businessmen I know have long since found their places in the army, those who wish to.” She did not add that a number of them had accepted commissions in the Confederate army. It was only to be expected. Louisiana was, en fait, a part of the South.

  “We wondered if, perhaps, your husband might be persuaded to serve?” Mignon said.

  Philomène stirred in her chair, but remained silent. Marie swallowed a sudden sadness. While they had never actually married, Christophe was the father of all her children, and she had grieved as a widow.

  “My husband passed on some years ago,” she said.

  “Forgive me,” Mignon said at once. “And accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Marie said with a glance at her daughter. Philomène also still grieved, she knew. Reminders such as this brought the feelings forward.

  “Perhaps you could persuade some of the gentlemen here, in Boston, to take up the cause,” Dominic said.

  Marie regarded him, and had to admit that his determination did him credit. “I fear you overestimate my influence,” she said softly. “My name means little here. I am an old Creole lady, nothing more.”

  He bowed his head, acknowledging the rebuff. It made her sorry, and she sought for some hope to ease the disappointment.

  “There is one man to whom I could write,” Marie said. “I believe he remembers Mignon.”

  Mignon lifted her head at this. “Anthony?”

  Marie nodded, then looked to Dominic. “Perhaps you remember Anthony Ramsey? He was only a boy when you left.”

  Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “I remember his father.”

  “He is dead, that one. Anthony now owns Laurel Grove. He would agree with your cause, I think. I can ask him to come, but I make no promise.”

  Dominic drew two long breaths, his mouth set. At last he gave a single nod.

  “Please give Anthony my kindest regards,” Mignon said. “If you think it will help, you may tell him that I will be serving in the regiment.”

  “Mais non!” said Marie. “Women do not serve as soldiers!”

  “I will dress as a man. I can do as much as any human male.”

  Marie knew this to be true. Though she was not built as a laborer, Mignon was still quite strong.

  “Would Ramsey be willing to command the regiment?” Dominic asked grudgingly. “It is a commander that we need most.”

  Marie raised her brows. “You have found no one to accept this high honor?”

  Dominic’s smile twisted bitterly. “None.”

  “Anthony might be willing. Certainly I will ask.”

  “Please do. Very few white men will consider commanding automata. Even the Negro regiments have had greater success recruiting officers than we. We have a handful, but none are of the stature to command. It requires . . .” He paused, his jaw tightening. “. . . a certain social status, to be accepted by the Army as a commander.”

  “Well, that is something Anthony has. I will write to him.”

  “Thank you, Madame.”

  “And what of you?” Marie asked. “Will you also join the ranks?”

  Dominic nodded, his expression sober. “As a non-commissioned officer, I hope. It is the best I can expect.”

  “Would you do better to join a Negro regiment?” Marie asked gently.

  Dominic frowned. Mignon answered for him. “No, Madame. It would be the same. Neither Negroes nor automata may be officers.”

  “I see.”

  The fight for freedom was familiar to her, though in New Orleans her efforts had been primarily on behalf of her fellow Creoles. She had never forgotten Mignon’s plight, however, and she knew that the automata faced not only the same obstacles as human slaves, but the additional stigma of being machines. Not all automata were ensouled, but those who were needed the protection of all who realized the sacred value of a soul, no matter where it resided.

  “Bien. I will help you,” Marie said.

  Instead of returning home, Marie extended her visit indefinitely. She and Philomène leased a house in the neighborhood where Dominic and Mignon shared a home. Marie wrote her letter to Anthony Ramsey and anxiously awaited a reply.

  Dominic spent his days attempting to find more officers for the would-be regiment. Marie and Philomène assisted Mignon, who had a successful business making gloves.

  On fine days, Marie sallied forth with her basket and Philomène’s escort to see what she might find in the marketplace, and to learn what listening might tell her. She collected what she could of items she kept in store back at home. These were most often to be found at the markets where the colored populations traded. On these excursions she left her Parisian bonnet at home and wore her traditional headscarf, tied in the distinctive seven-pointed style that informed the knowledgeable of her status as a priestess of voudon. This, along with her interest in such things as certain herbs and fabrics, and rarer curiosities such as beads of colored glass and the bones of small animals, evoked speculative glances. She found no one openly selling charms on the market, and soon she began to receive low-voiced inquiries. Thus, she resumed her own trade in a place where she had never imagined practicing it, amidst the northern Protestants.

  She missed her home and her children. She missed her snake as well, but this cold climate would be uncomfortable for a python, and she entertained no thoughts of sending for the creature she had left in Heloïse’s care. She had with her a shed skin of Zombi’s, which she had kept supple through the years by applications of a special oil of her own concocting. Zombi herself was long gone.

  One February day, when the stale snow lay in drifts along the streets, she and Philomène returned from the market to find a note from Mignon wedged into their door, urging them to come at once to her and Dominic’s house. They set off at once, not bothering to go in, for the hour was late and daylight would soon fade.

  The Dubois’s house was painted blue with white trim. Yemaya’s colors, Marie thought whenever she saw them, and paid silent honor to the Queen of the Sea.

  Mignon and Dominic had a visitor: a tall, portly white man with red hair and beard, the latter well-trimmed and liberally sprinkled with white. He was seated on the divan in the front parlor, talking with Dominic, and turned a mildly curious and startlingly blue eye toward Marie and Philomène, but did not rise when they entered.

  Dominic stood, and greeted them with a bow. “Madame Paris, Mademoiselle, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Daniel Malcomb.”

  Marie acknowledged the visitor with a nod. “Mr. Malcomb.”

  “Soon to be Colonel Malcomb, eh, Dubois?” Malcomb chuckled, seeming pleased with himself. He looked Marie up and down. “French, are you?”

  “Creole,” Marie said, not feeling that this man deserved—nor indeed, desired—any further explanation. She bristled as his blue gaze lingered momentarily upon Philomène, but then he turned his attention back to Dominic.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to manage the details,” he said. “I can round up one or two fellows to help. I’ve got a man in mind for quartermaster. See if you can find a few well-bred men for the regimental officers. Those fellows you’ve got . . . well, they’ll do for company commanders.”

  Dominic bowed, though he did not smile. “Madame Paris knows a gentleman who may be willing to join us. She has written to him.”

  “Has she? Very good, very good.”

  He did not exhibit much confidence in Marie’s connections, as he took his leave. While Dominic showed him out, Mignon invited Marie and Philomène to take his place on the divan.

  “And so that is to be your colonel?” Marie asked when Dominic returned.

  “W
e have no choice,” Dominic said, though clearly he was unhappy. “He has pledged two hundred thousand dollars to equip the regiment.”

  “Mon Dieu! Will it cost so much?”

  “It will cost more,” Dominic said. “But this is a beginning. We need rifles, we need uniforms. The government will provide some things—ammunition, and some supplies—but . . .”

  “It is up to the regiment to equip itself.”

  Dominic nodded.

  “We can make our own uniforms,” Mignon said. “Get me the specifications, and I will begin at once.”

  “You will need materials,” Dominic said. “It will cost money.”

  “Malcomb will pay when you tell him how much you will save over the cost of purchasing made uniforms.”

  “Mignon,” Marie said, “even you cannot make a thousand uniforms in less than a year!”

  “Some of the recruits can help. We do not need rest, as humans do.”

  Marie looked at Dominic. “How were you able to get that man to commit?”

  “No one else will have him. He has been trying to buy a colonelcy for months.”

  “That bodes ill,” Marie said, frowning.

  Dominic splayed his hands. “We have no other choice.”

  As springtime came to Boston, the activity in the Dubois’ home increased to a fever pitch. Malcomb might be a repellent individual, but he was generous with his funds, which was well, for it required a certain amount of bribery to secure the Army’s acceptance of his command. Once this was done, however, the regiment could begin to recruit.

  Mignon became the first volunteer, enlisting under the name Michael Smith. Marie was distressed to see her with her hair cut short.

  “It will not grow back!”

  Mignon, looking like a particularly handsome young male automaton in the first of the newly made uniforms, shrugged. “A wig is easy enough, should I wish to dress as a woman. If I want permanent long hair again, I will have it installed.”