Clockwork Souls (12 page)

“They want their chance to shine,” Anthony said over dinner
in camp. Marie and Philomène, who had both insisted on accompanying the
regiment, were serving as cooks to Anthony, unusual only in that the cooks were
also welcome at the table.

“They shall have it,” Dominic said. “I have persuaded
Malcomb to request a transfer to the front in Virginia.”

“Will they have us?” Anthony asked.

“I believe so. I have been corresponding with a certain
Colonel Pleasants, who has plans for breaching the Rebel works. He thinks we
may be able to help, and has promised to request our assignment to him.”

Marie’s spine tingled. So the regiment was going to war at
last.

“We are coming with you,” she said.

“It will be rougher than this,” Dominic cautioned.

His words were massively understated.

When the regiment arrived at the trenches before Petersburg
early in June, they were stunned at the expanse of the earthworks. These went on
for miles, embracing the city in a broad arc of more than twenty miles. Union
troops had made no headway against this defense in the months they had been
there.

Gazing at the works from the Headquarters hilltop, Marie was
dismayed. Death hung over the place like a dreary fog. She wished she were
anywhere else.

The regiment had been given a site at the western extreme of
the Union camp. It was damp and somewhat boggy, but they set up their camp with
dogged cheerfulness.

The neighboring regiment’s camp was aglow with firelight
that evening. The 1st built no fires, automata being in no need of such human
comforts, though at Headquarters there was a fire for the officers. Marie spent
the first evening in camp sitting beside it, wrapped in her shawl, gazing into
the flames as if they could show her a way out.

Footsteps roused her. She looked up to see a stranger—young
like Anthony, dark-haired with a goatee, wearing a lieutenant-colonel’s
straps—shaking hands with Colonel Malcomb a few yards away. Anthony joined
them, and drew Dominic into the conversation. They all stood talking for a few
minutes, then the stranger went away.

Dominic came to the fire and sat beside Marie. “Did you see?
That was Colonel Pleasants.”

“The one who has a plan for . . . this?”
Marie gestured toward the earthworks hidden by darkness.

“Yes. We are to start tomorrow.”

“Can you tell me?”

Dominic glanced around, then leaned close to Marie. “We are
to dig a mine.”

“Mining? Here? What resources can be found in this swamp?”

“That I think I should not tell you, save that we are not
seeking valuable substances.”

Marie frowned, but no more was to be got from him. He
returned to his camp among the enlisted, and the officers retired early, weary
from the long day’s travel.

Marie lay upon her cot, gazing at the canvas roof of the
tent that Anthony had provided for her and Philomène. She felt deep misgivings,
particularly about her daughter’s safety, but that was the price of being here.
She would not trade it for all the comforts of home. And Philomène had friends
enough to watch over her.

The next day the regiment marched off toward the earthworks.
Marie and Philomène occupied the day in setting up their kitchen and preparing
dinner for Anthony and his subordinates. At four o’clock, in a small gesture of
defiance, Marie made
café au lait
with the set of pots she had found in
Boston, one of the few treasures she had brought along.

She and Philomène dressed plainly here, in clothing suitable
for working and camping. They both wore headcloths of plain white, and Marie
tied hers simply, desiring to attract no attention. They might have been taken
for slaves, and the thought that beyond the trenches the opposing army was
served by many slaves made her skin tingle with dread.

The regiment marched back into camp as the sun set. Watching
from the Headquarters kitchen, Marie thought that not all the companies were
present. Anthony confirmed this over dinner.

“We are to work in shifts until our assignment is done. Our
soldiers do not need sleep, so they can work around the clock. Three companies
are on duty at a time, with one on guard duty and the rest in camp, from now
until we finish.”

“And you cannot tell us what this assignment is?” Marie
asked.

“Alas, no. But I promise you will be alerted when we are
nearing completion.”

There was an undertone of tense excitement in his voice.
Marie glanced at Dominic, wondering if she could wheedle the details from him.
He looked weary, so she decided to leave him be.

The days dragged on. Summer heat oppressed the humans, though
it did not affect the spirits of the automata. The damp, however, took its toll
in rusted joints and mechanisms. The mechanical ward, which had its own large
tent, was the busiest place in the regiment’s camp.

The companies that were off duty amused themselves in
various ways, including playing at cards and an obsession for building things;
anything that could be made with the materials at hand. Marie and Philomène
began to receive presents—a clock, a collapsible kitchen sink, a Sibley stove
that had been converted into an oven—and soon had so many such things in their
kitchen that Marie feared the day when they would have to move it all.

One night after dinner Marie heard distant drumming, not a
military rhythm but a beat that moved her soul and made her want to dance. She
could not resist investigating, and stopped Dominic as he was about to return
to his camp.

“What is the drumming?”

“Soldiers entertaining themselves,” he replied.

“Take me to see.”

“Madame! It is not fitting for you to walk the camps at
night!”

“That is why I ask for your escort.”

She would not be dissuaded, and at last Dominic agreed to
take her to the drumming. For the first time since their arrival, she walked
far beyond the safe confines of the 1st’s camp.

The air was damp; heavy and warm. Marie, accustomed to the
tropical climate of New Orleans, thought it pleasant enough.

They skirted the neighboring camps, following the drums. At
length they reached the camp of a Negro regiment where a bonfire burned high
into the night. Drums rumbled, hands clapped. Occasionally a voice would sing
out for a moment, then fade. This was no structured music. This was the music
of a tribe.

Marie stood listening, swaying slightly to the drums. Too
long had she been away from this; not since she had left New Orleans had she
danced.

Someone came toward them from the fire. A soldier, yes, but
with eyes alight. Dominic took a step forward and the man stopped.

“Madame Laveau! It is you!”

Marie blinked. “Skinny Jim!”

He grinned. “Not so skinny no more. Father Abraham feeds us
good!”

The last time she had seen Jim, he had been a slave. He was
often seen about New Orleans, executing errands for his wealthy owners.

Marie had met his gaze sometimes in the market as he
followed his master, carrying parcels. Now and then, when his master’s
attention was elsewhere, she had slipped Jim a coin and a kind word. How he had
gained his freedom she would not ask, but she was glad.

“Come to the fire, Madame! Come and dance!”

How sorely she was tempted. She shook her head. “I am not
dressed for dancing.”

“Come anyway!”

“Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow?”

She glanced at Dominic. He looked disapproving.

“Perhaps.”

“And you bring your snake, Madame?”

“No, she is at home.”

At home. Suddenly the longing struck her. She had not been much
troubled by it, being so busy, but seeing Jim brought back memories that made
her homesick.

“Do not look so dour,” she said as she and Dominic turned
away. “It is only a dance.”

They returned to their own camp to find that a meeting of
the headquarters staff had convened. Marie retired to her tent while Dominic
reported to Anthony.

She opened her trunk and carefully moved aside her clothing
until she found what she wanted. Fabric of brilliant colors and lively
patterns. Fabric no white woman would be caught wearing.

She drew out the headcloth, bright with patterns of white
against the purple and wine. Just touching it filled her with excitement. It
was far too long since she had worn it.

Tomorrow night, she would dance. She closed the trunk and
sat back on her heels, softly smiling.

The next day the entire regiment was on duty in the mine.
Evening came, and they did not return. The bread that Marie and Philomène had
baked cooled. They ate their own supper, then banked the fire beneath the stew
pot, and waited.

Colonel Malcomb came into the camp, looking pleased. “Ramsey’s
missed his dinner, eh? Well, it shouldn’t go to waste. Bring me a plate.”

He sat at Anthony’s camp table and looked expectantly at
Marie. She was on the verge of defying him. Only the thought that it might
bring trouble to Anthony prevented her.

She caught Philomène’s eye and with a tiny jerk of her head,
sent her into the tent. When her daughter was out of sight, she dished up a
plate of stew for Malcomb.

Why was he here, casually demanding supper, when the rest of
the officers were off with the regiment? While they toiled, he made himself
comfortable at their expense. It did not surprise Marie, particularly, but it
did offend her.

“Excellent, excellent!” said Malcomb as he devoured the
stew. “Better than my own cook can do. I’m inclined to hire you away from
Ramsey.”

Marie said nothing. To keep busy, she started a pot of
coffee. As soon as he smelled it, Ramsey demanded this, too. Marie poured
half-cooked coffee into a tin mug and gave it to him, then returned the pot to
the fire.

This man would never know how she despised him. Because he
saw her only as a cook, he did not know her strength and determination. He did
not see her contempt.

She formed a resolve to protect those she loved from this
man. As soon as he departed, she summoned Philomène to watch the coffee, then
began to work.

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.