Clockwork Souls (11 page)

“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.”

After the war
, was the unspoken addendum. Many of
their plans were now amended to include those words.

Marie received letters from her children and friends in New
Orleans. In response to her quiet inquires, she learned that the Army had also
occupied Laurel Grove plantation, as they had done with many such
establishments in Louisiana. Of Anthony Ramsey, she heard nothing. She sent
another letter to him, this time in the care of a trusted acquaintance in the
Queen City.

One day, a gentlemanly automaton arrived bearing a copy of
the handbill that Dominic had circulated among the automata in Boston and
nearby towns. He was plainly designed as a house servant, and his manner
suggested that of a gentleman’s attendant, or perhaps a butler.

“I should like to offer my services,” he said in a polished
voice with a trace of an English accent.

Marie came to the door of the neighboring room where she and
Philomène were sewing buttons onto uniforms, and listened while Dominic
interviewed the newcomer.

“Name?”

“Ives, sir.”

“You are a free automaton?”

“Yes, sir. I was freed upon my master’s demise, in
accordance with the terms of his will.”

“You have military experience?” Dominic asked doubtfully.

“Yes, sir. I accompanied my former master as batman in the
Crimea.”

“You would have to serve as an enlisted man again. I fear it
is not appropriate to your programming.”

“I am not proud, sir. Not in this case. Too much is at
stake.”

“Very well. Your pay will be thirteen dollars a month. Sign
here.” Private Ives was to become one of the gems of the regiment. He undertook
to train the other recruits, having studied military protocol during his prior
service. His tact in dealing with automata who had no knowledge of military
discipline soon won him the respect and affection of the recruits. Before long
he was promoted to corporal, then sergeant.

Sergeant Ives, through inquiries among his acquaintance in
Boston, was able to provide Dominic with the names of several young gentlemen
who proved suitable and, more importantly, persuadable candidates for officers.

One night, as Marie was preparing to retire, a knock fell
upon the door of her house. Philomène went to answer it, and soon returned, her
soft brown eyes wide.

“Maman, it is Mr. Ramsey. I thought you would wish me to
invite him in.”

Marie was already standing, tightening the sash of her
dressing gown. Her hair, which Philomène had been brushing, floated cloud-like
about her shoulders. She hastened to the front parlor, where a handsome
gentleman of some thirty years rose from the sofa at her approach, turning his
hat nervously in his hands.

“Madame Paris?” he asked.

His voice was deep, but even though it had been decades,
Marie recognized the soul behind the blue eyes—the soul of a child, that had
lent a piece of itself to Mignon.

“Anthony,” she said, inhaling deeply in relief.

“Forgive my intrusion at this late hour,” he began.

“Nonsense! I begged you to hasten to me. How glad I am to
see you again, my child!”

At this he smiled, and took the hand she held out to him.
While Philomène bustled about making
café au lait
, Marie questioned
Anthony about his present life. She frowned when she learned that, despite his
cooperation with the Union officials, Laurel Grove had been seized.

“I was lucky they did not arrest me,” he said. “Some of my
neighbors fared worse.”

“What of your slaves?”

“Commandeered to serve the Army,” he said. “I’ve kept track
of them as well as I could, but they have been sent in several directions.”

“And your family?”

A tinge of color rose to his cheek. “Madame, I have none. My
parents are deceased.”

“And you have not wed? A man of your stature should have
heirs.”

He shook his head. “I have not wanted to add to a household
sustained by slavery. Perhaps you will understand my hesitation when I tell you
that I have not forgotten the help you gave me, nor the fix I was in before you
came to me.”

Marie nodded. “You remember, then? You were so ill then, and
so young. I was not sure that you would recall it as more than a fevered dream.”

Anthony drew himself up, sitting straighter and taller, his
cup and saucer balanced on one knee. “Every moment I spent in the body of that
automaton, I recall with crystal clarity, Madame. It is why I did not hesitate
to respond to your summons, despite the uncertainty of my fortunes.”

“Then perhaps you would be willing to serve the cause of
freedom for automata?”

“Most willing,” he nodded. “But tell me—is it Mignon of whom
you speak? I thought that she was now free.”

“She is, and she is here in Boston, though you will find her
greatly changed.”

A joyful fire lit his eyes. “When may I see her?”

“Tomorrow.”

The reunion between Anthony and Mignon was at first
strained. When he and Marie arrived at the Dubois house the next morning, he
was clearly taken aback by the appearance of the short-haired automaton in a
private’s uniform. Within a few minutes, though, they were talking as old
friends. Marie, quietly pleased, watched and listened.

“I have wanted for many years to thank you,” Anthony said.

“For nursing you?” said Mignon. “It was my job.”

“For that, yes. But also for . . . allowing
me the shelter of your body when mine was so ill.” A tinge of color came into
Anthony’s cheek. “I did not understand immediately what had happened. It took
me a while to realize.”

Mignon shook her head. “It is I who should thank you. Before
then, I had no soul. I did not allow you anything. Until you resided in this
machine, there was no awareness in it. I am the small spark you left behind
when Madame returned you to your flesh.”

Dominic, watching this exchange, addressed Anthony. “Since
you appreciate the automaton’s plight, perhaps you would be willing to serve
our cause.”

“Of course I will serve!” Anthony said, turning to him. “But—I
have little money. My fortunes are uncertain, at present.”

“It is your breeding we need, if you will permit me to say
so,” said Dominic. “We need gentlemen for officers.”

Anthony put on a charming smile. “Then gentlemen you shall
have.”

Through his influence, as he made acquaintance among Boston’s
polite society, the last few vacancies among the regiment’s officers were
filled. Marie secretly chafed at the ease with which he was accepted in Boston.
She, herself, though a free-born Creole, would never be accorded the same
treatment.

After the war
, she told herself. Such small
indignities were nothing compared with the suffering of the enslaved.

On the sixteenth of May, the regiment was mustered in as
the 1st Massachusetts Automated Engineers. Marie and Philomène stood near the
governor’s reviewing stand and watched as Anthony, now Lieutenant Colonel
Ramsey, rode by in company with Colonel Malcomb and the other officers. Dominic
was Sergeant-major under Anthony, the highest possible non-commissioned rank.
Mignon, in her guise as Private Smith, marched with the color guard.

Marie’s heart fluttered for a moment as they passed. Mignon
looked so small, almost frail, amid the larger automata in her company, yet her
eyes showed determination. She would never yield, and she would never again be
owned.

The officers were in fine trim. The soldiers were a motley
collection even in their new uniforms. Some looked human, others human-like,
and some were nothing like. One, Thwart, had been a smelting machine in a
factory, and was only mobile because of heavy modifications since his escape.
The others were humanoid, though one—Rapp, he was called—had no skin to his
face, so the metal works within were exposed, always in motion. Of necessity,
uniforms for the more unusual recruits had been custom-made, and even so did
not always fit well.

The regiment was stationed in North Bridgewater, there to
undergo further training. As engineers, their first duty was labor; building
roads and bridges, laying railroad track, and other such dreary work. They
toiled on such projects for a full month, by which time many of the enlisted
automata were becoming impatient.