Clockwork Souls

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  She did not have all the ingredients she would normally use in a charm to ward against an enemy, so she improvised. She slipped into Anthony’s tent and took a cartridge from his ammunition box, murmuring a prayer for forgiveness. A newspaper lay folded on the box beside his cot; she tore a casualty list from this as well.

  From the kitchen supplies she took a handful of cayenne pepper. From her own small, precious stores, she collected a pinch of powdered blue glass, and—with a pang of regret—tore a small strip of Zombi’s skin.

  She placed the things she had gathered on Anthony’s table, where the colonel’s dishes still sat. Philomène moved to clear them, but Marie waved her away.

  Taking a bit of charcoal from the fire pit, she sat down and sketched a picture of Colonel Malcomb on the casualties list. When it was done, she opened the cartridge and poured the gunpowder on top of it, then mixed in the cayenne, powdered glass, and shreds of Zombi’s skin. Carefully, she folded the sides of the newspaper over the powders, turning it away from her and away again until it made a small bundle. This she tied with black thread. When it was secure, she tipped up the tin mug Colonel Malcomb had drunk from to pour a drop of the weak coffee, a drop that had touched the lips of the colonel, onto the charm.

  She held the bundle over the camp fire, passing it through the smoke until the drop of coffee was dry. If he crossed her, she could use this charm to block Colonel Malcomb from harming her or anyone she loved. She slipped it into her pocket and cleared away the remnants of her work.

  It was dark by the time the regiment came into camp. Marie heard the sound of their marching—more squeaking than usual—and stood watching for Anthony.

  He came with some of the other officers, and brought Dominic with them. All looked weary beyond measure. Marie and Philomène hastened to bring them food and coffee.

  Dominic ate in haste and hurried off again. Marie had no chance to question him, but she caught a snatch of conversation between him and Anthony: something regarding fuses.

  As she moved about the kitchen, Marie watched for Mignon’s company. She wanted to ask her friend what had gone on in the mine that day. When she spotted that company’s captain, she hurried to him with a mug of hot coffee.

  “Bless you,” he said, sipping it as he trudged along.

  “Could you ask Private Smith to come to me, after he has been maintained?”

  The captain raised an eyebrow, but nodded. It was not the first such request Marie had made.

  She returned to the kitchen. Half an hour later, Mignon came, her uniform mucked with dirt. Philomène had gone to bed.

  They sat beside the fire. Mignon was straight-backed. Only her eyes showed an exhaustion of spirit.

  “You were out very late.”

  Mignon nodded. “The colonel wished us to finish the excavation.”

  “With so many working on it day and night, it must be very large.”

  “Our part of it is.”

  “Do you know what it is for, this excavation?”

  Mignon met her gaze, and did not answer for a long moment. No doubt she was not supposed to talk of it. It was only her trust in Marie that made her speak.

  “The tunnels are being dug beneath the Confederate works.”

  “Tunnels? You mean the mine?”

  “There is the main one, that we all have been working on, and then the 1st has made others branching out.”

  Tunnels and fuses. Marie’s eyes widened. “Mon Dieu!”

  Mignon nodded in agreement.

  “And it is finished?”

  “Ours were finished today.”

  Marie swallowed. Dominic was still gone; he must be trying to obtain the fuses Anthony wanted. Fuses to go into the tunnels. To set off explosives.

  She trembled at the thought of the devastation. So many would die, but this was war, after all. That was the Army’s goal, to create enough destruction to bring the impasse at Petersburg to an end.

  It would save lives, in the long run. She knew this, but it was not a comfort.

  “When?” she asked.

  “I do not know, Madame.”

  Marie stood. “Mignon, will you escort me tonight? I am going to another camp.”

  Mignon’s eyes showed her surprise. “Let me find some others to join us. You should be well-guarded.”

  “Very well. Bring them back in half an hour.”

  Mignon left, and Marie turned to her tent. Philomène slept gently on her own cot.

  The ceremony began here, with the donning of her headdress. Marie wished that she had brought a white dress, but acknowledged that it would be impractical in this place. What magic she brought with her resonated in the colorful cloth of her head scarf, and in the skin of Zombi that she carefully draped around her hips. She tied her headdress in the elaborate knots that would tell those who knew how to read them of her stature.

  Atop a cracker box in one corner of the tent, she had made a tiny altar. She lit the candles, chanting in a low voice so as not to wake her daughter.

  “Ogun, give your blessing to those in this camp, to all who are part of the 1st Automated Engineers. Let the horns of war blow away all doubt, all fear, all resistance.”

  She cast a precious pinch of sage into the candle’s flame, then straightened. Philomène stirred.

  “Maman?”

  “Go to sleep, cher.”

  “You lit the candles.”

  “I was saying a prayer. Can you sleep with the light?”

  “Yes.” Philomène turned her back to the altar and gave a contented sigh. Marie watched her for a few minutes, then put on her cloak and went out.

  When she emerged from her tent, she found both Mignon and Dominic waiting by the fire.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked Dominic.

  He nodded.

  “And did you get what you sought?”

  He blinked, turned his head to look at Mignon, then slowly nodded. Mignon, in her muddied uniform with her cap pulled down over her brow, was silent as stone.

  “Bien,” Marie said. “It is time to ask the aid of the Orisha. Take me to the camp we saw before.”

  Mignon had brought five other soldiers, who waited just outside the Headquarters camp. Privates Thwart and Rapp were among them.

  As they walked away from the 1st’s camp, she asked, “When will this thing happen?”

  Dominic glanced at her. “Tomorrow.”

  Marie nodded and walked on.

  A queer company they made, Marie and Dominic surrounded by automata. Mignon walked in front, glancing back now and again. Two soldiers marched to either side of Marie and her friend, and Thwart came behind.

  Marie’s feet tingled as she walked. She was aching to dance. At length, she heard the drums.

  Without conscious thought, she matched her pace to their rhythm. The night was warm, and she wanted to fling off her cloak, but she held it tight until they reached the camp where the colored soldiers were gathered around the bonfire and the drums.

  Like the night before, there was frenzy. Voices rose and fell, and the rumble of the drums was a river flowing through them all. Marie took off her cloak and handed it to Mignon, stepped out of her shoes, and walked toward the fire.

  Heads turned. First the voices, then the clapping, then the drumming faded as Marie walked up to the fire.

  She stood there a moment in silence. All eyes were on her. Some, she knew, were hostile. Others were afraid, but a thread of excitement pulsed through the rest. She could feel it.

  She saw Skinny Jim, grinning at her. A small smile was all she gave him.

  She stamped her right foot, smacking it against the earth. Confederate earth, rebel earth? Earth did not care about human squabbles. In the end, all humans returned to it.

  She stamped again, then again, then added rhythm. The earth was a drum beneath her feet. A few hands began clapping along.

  The dance lifted up her spirit and she floated, feet drumming, arms high, head proud. Under her breath she chanted prayers to Ogun,
spirit of metal, warrior, Father of Technology and therefore the protector of automata. Prayers for the safety of her friends. Prayers for her people and their allies. A warmth rose up around her and she realized it was the colored soldiers, clapping now, singing her chant, some also dancing. Every soul that joined in gave strength to the prayers.

  A crash startled her; more followed and she almost lost the rhythm, then she realized the crashing was in time with it. Thwart was drumming on himself with both spade-tipped arms. A howl of approval rose up from the crowd.

  Elation filled Marie, but she did not let it lift her too high. This was a serious prayer, on a serious matter. Lives would end tomorrow. She must never forget that. She dedicated those lives to Oya, who oversaw rebirth and new life. Let the slaves be reborn into freedom, she prayed.

  Others were dancing; the colored soldiers rose up and moved to the rhythm. The dance was theirs, now. No longer Marie’s. She finished her prayer and slipped through the crowd of moving bodies, away from the fire, suddenly weary.

  Dominic and Mignon stood waiting. Thwart was still drumming on himself by the fire; a group of dancing men now surrounded him. Mignon retrieved Marie’s cloak from another of the guards, and Marie let her fold it around her. A cry of disappointment rose from the soldiers around Thwart when he stopped drumming and lumbered away to re-join Marie’s escort as they departed.

  Back at the camp, the candles on Marie’s little altar were nearly spent. Philomène lay in peaceful slumber.

  Marie silently removed her headdress and Zombi’s skin and carefully put them away. As she settled wearily onto her cot, bones aching with fatigue, she gave a sigh of satisfaction. The rhythm of the drums returned to her thoughts, to soothe her to sleep.

  Shortly before dawn, Marie woke when a demon kicked her bed.

  She sat up, startled and disoriented. No stranger was in the tent. But she was certain the bed had moved, violently and abruptly.

  Philomène was awake also. “Maman? What is it?”

  Marie could not answer. She rose swiftly, threw on her cloak, and went outside.

  In the dim, pre-dawn light, an evil cloud of darkness hung over the Rebel fortifications. Marie imagined she could hear voices shouting—screaming—from the spot beneath that cloud. Surely the sound could not reach across the distance, but though the camp was more than a mile from the front, she saw motion. The area beneath the cloud (which had begun to dissipate) . . . writhed.

  Philomène emerged from the tent, took one look, and exclaimed in horror, then set about building up the fire. Marie could not tear her eyes away from the works.

  A crow flew up from a nearby copse of trees. Marie flung words toward it, catching its sight for her use. She stood rooted as the crow flew unwilling toward the fray, spurred by her dread.

  Many men—Confederates—lay dead or dying in the gaping crater that had been a section of the Rebel works. Many more screamed in anguish. Mud and horror sprawled everywhere.

  A battalion of Union troops moved toward the newly-opened gap in the fortifications, but they descended into the pit and did not come out again. As the crow circled above the chaos, Marie saw the Rebels regain their confidence, and begin shooting down into the crater.

  “No,” she whispered.

  What should have been an advantage was fast becoming a disaster. Whatever plan had been made, it had gone awry. Instead of pushing through breach in the Confederate lines, the Union troops milled in confusion in the crater. They had no ladders with which to climb out. They were trapped, and the Rebels knew it. The Rebels began firing down at their enemies. Then they brought their cannon and aimed them down into the pit, wreaking horror.

  More Union troops arrived—Negro troops this time. Rifle fire from the Rebels to either side of the crater drove them into the pit, where they were trapped among their dead and dying comrades. Marie glimpsed Skinny Jim, his face a mask of terror just before the blast of an exploding shell tore into him.

  “Madame? Are you all right?”

  Called back to her body by Anthony’s voice, Marie shuddered. She shook herself free of the bird’s awareness, releasing it to fly where it wished.

  Anthony stood by the fire. In the darkness, others moved in the camp, spoke in hushed, urgent voices. “Was it the mine?” Marie asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” Anthony said, his face grim.

  “It has gone terribly wrong.”

  “Were any of ours there?”

  “A squadron. To see to the fuses. We had to replace them; the ones the Army gave us were terrible and failed to splice.”

  “Who?” Marie asked, dreading the answer. Dominic was the most experienced engineer in the regiment.

  “A platoon under Sergeant Ives,” he answered.

  “And Dominic?”

  He nodded. “And Dominic. He took the fuses.”

  “Dieu,” Marie whispered.

  “There you are!” said a loud voice. Colonel Malcomb strode up to Anthony, his blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Send in the first battalion.”

  “No!” Marie cried involuntarily, drawing his glare.

  “Back to your bed, woman, and pray you are not killed tonight!”

  “It is they who will be killed if you send them into that hell!” she returned.

  “Madame—”

  Malcomb’s dark laughter boomed. “They cannot be killed. They are machines.”

  Marie opened her mouth to protest further, but was silenced by Anthony’s frown. He knew all that she would say; he felt as she did. But he must also obey orders.

  A rhythmic clanking sound arose in the distance, like the beating of some metal drum. Thwart? But no, it was not so deep.

  “Are we ordered forward?” Anthony asked the colonel. “Have you heard from the general?”

  “There’s no time to wait,” Malcomb said, scowling. “We must seize the moment! Form up the battalion.”

  With a worried glance at Marie, Anthony turned to obey. The clanking grew louder, and now a voice called out, “Madame!”

  Marie turned, and saw a uniformed figure staggering toward the camp at a run. He carried another, limp form. Both were covered in mud. The clanking sounded with every second step. In the darkness she could not see their faces, but she knew the voice.

  “Ives!” she cried as she hurried forward.

  The sergeant did not stop, but slowed to a walk as Marie reached him. She saw who it was that he carried.

  “Dominic! Mon Dieu!”

  Ives continued toward the camp. He was damaged; his chest was torn open, exposing a mess of gears and oozing oil. His right hip was smashed, and she now heard a terrible grinding before each clank.

  “He needs attention, Madame,” Ives said, his voice as polished as ever, his tone conversational. “I thought it best to bring him to you.”

  “He is wounded?”

  “A timber knocked him down when the mine went up. The fuses were faster than we expected.”

  “Bring him to my tent.”

  Ives continued walking, and Marie went anxiously beside him, peering at Dominic. He was unconscious. She prayed that he still lived.

  “Ives,” said Anthony as they reached the camp, “what happened?”

  Ives ducked his head to enter Marie’s tent as she held the flap open. Philomène must have heard the voices; she was up and dressed, and stood back watching with an expression of dread.

  “The mine worked beautifully, sir,” Ives said as he tenderly laid Dominic on Marie’s bed, his feet still marching in place. “But I fear the troops who advanced were unprepared. They went down into the crater, and are now being shot like fish in a barrel.”

  Philomène made a small, distressed sound, then busied herself attending to Dominic. Marie placed a hand on his chest. Reassured that his heart still beat strongly, she turned to Ives.

  “You are also wounded,” she said, following Ives out of the tent.

  “I believe so, Madame.” He continued walking, as if unable to stop moving. He circled s
lowly around the fire, clanking with each step.

  “He can walk,” Malcomb said. “Get him into line with the battalion.”

  “He needs repair!” Anthony said.

  “Balderdash. He can move; he can fight. Not as if he’s in pain.”

  Marie turned a look of fury upon the colonel. She knew—she had seen—what would be Ives’s fate, the fate of all the 1st, if they marched into that hideous crater. Her hand slid into her pocket and closed around the small bundle there.

  At that moment, a clank was followed by a horrible shriek of grinding metal. Ives collapsed, his right leg separated from his frame. The leg continued to flex, as if still trying to walk.

  “Ives!” Marie bent to him, catching his hand in hers. It convulsed slightly, pressing the soft leather glove that covered it against her palm.

  “Never mind me, Madame,” he said. “You cannot help me. Look to Dominic.”

  “Ah, too bad,” said Colonel Malcomb. “Well, get the others moving.”

  “Sir, if we are not ordered to advance, I must protest,” Anthony said, standing to face the colonel. “To send our men into that breach would be to doom them to needless destruction.”

  “Quite so,” said Ives, gazing disinterestedly at the sky, where a hint of dawn was growing.

  “They are machines,” said Malcomb. “Let them go in and push through the breach. If the Rebels break them, at least Union blood will be spared.” He turned to Anthony. “You want to be a hero, don’t you? Now’s your chance.”

  “That is not my idea of heroism,” Anthony said.

  “No? Well, unless you want to be court-martialed, you’ll obey me!”

  “Enough!” cried Marie, standing. She could no longer bear the wrath that filled her.

  Reaching into her pocket, she took out the charm she had made and faced Malcomb. Drawing Oya’s sign in the air with the bundle, she stared into the eyes—into the wicked soul—of the man.

  “Let good command evil,” she chanted. “Let right master wrong. Let evil be fixed. By Oya’s wrath, I banish you!”

  She threw the bundle into the fire. A flash of light and a clap of thunder followed.

  She was blinded. Her ears rang.

  Slowly, the light faded to darkness and she could see again. Someone was screaming. It was Ives.