Clockwork Souls (22 page)

“Lieutenant, tell me your thoughts on this Emancipation
Proclamation issued by Mr. Lincoln.” De Chingé bent over the codex array in the
weapon’s guts.

“I have not heard of it, sir.”

De Chingé could tell that he lied by the way the man shifted
his feet and his eyes.

“What is your opinion, Lieutenant, of a law that will free
the slaves and ensouled automata?”

“It is not my place to express my opinions, sir.”

“I ask you man-to-man, not colonel to lieutenant. Do you own
slaves? Have you ever dealt with a freed slave?”

“I own five slaves personally, sir. They assist me in the
family shipping business and the running of my home in Charleston. My father
owns more slaves on the plantation I hope to inherit one day, far in the
future, when he eventually passes from this world.” Clear, crisp words.
Statements of fact. No opinions.

“Then an emancipation of slaves will hurt your finances.”

“Yes.”

“You are familiar with machines that act quite human?”

“Only by reputation. Some gentlemen consider them superior
to slaves. They require less maintenance and they work harder and longer.”

“Would you consider working with one that has gained a soul,
either deliberately or by accident?”

“I have not considered it, sir. Now if you will excuse me, I
have other duties.”

“Yes I imagine you do. Dismissed.” De Chingé watched a long
time as his assistant tended to his duty. He had no doubt that duty included
reports to General Pemberton anytime De Chingé varied from expected protocols.

De Chingé removed six specific gold cards from his weapon
and retreated to his work tent. Within the privacy of canvas walls he took a
hammer and chisel to the key cards that would perfect the cannon’s aim. Three
minutes later he emerged, leaving the six thin pieces of gold in three dozen
pieces.

He performed three more acts of sabotage. Then he hastened
to where the observation balloon was being loaded onto a wagon for transport to
Richmond.

A scratching on the back wall of Tad’s prison tent
startled him upright. He groaned. Gripping his gut with one arm, he crawled the
two steps from his bedroll toward the noise.

Night had fallen hours ago and he had no light other than
what filtered beneath the flap from the campfire. Fortunately, he had nothing
to trip over.

“Yes?” he whispered.

“Captain Thaddeus, if I create a diversion at the front of
your tent, can you slip out beneath? I have loosened the pegs,” The Frenchman
whispered back.

Tad explored the canvas with his fingertips. It felt slack. “I
believe I can,” he returned in the same hushed tone.

“Once you have escaped, keep low and away from small fires.
You are in the center of camp. You will have only other tents to cover your
retreat.”

“Where should I go?”

“Do you remember the place where your balloon crashed?”

“Um—not really.” He tried to envision the map he’d called up
on the goggles.

“You will find the balloon in the meadow half a mile due
east of here. The wind is from that direction. Keep it in your face. There is
no moon to guide you. I need you to light the burner and fill the envelope
while I am occupied elsewhere. Wait for me. I beg of you.”

Tad heard a shuffle of footsteps retreating to the north,
then silence except for the usual sounds of men settling down to sleep.

Diversion?

What should he expect?

He worked at loosening the back wall even more, lifting the
bottom where it snugged tight against the ground, pushing and pulling in tiny
increments until he could raise the canvas a good eight inches. Was it enough
to wiggle beneath? He hoped so. The actual process of pushing his body through
should loosen the pegs and lines even more.

A thundering boom shook the ground and knocked him flat on
his butt. His ears rang and clogged. Wind whooshed through the tent behind the
noise. He barely heard it above the shouts of surprise and pounding of running
feet outside.

He counted to ten and raised the tent canvas. He saw no one
moving there, only heard them all racing toward the river.

His ribs protested the sideways movement and the pressure
from the ground as he pushed and slid free of his prison. He had to breathe
deep for too many long moments before he dared rise to a crouch and inspect his
surroundings. A towering wildfire backlit the camp.
Now that’s a diversion. I hope you blew up your own gun, de Chingé
.

The diversion wouldn’t last all night. He had to get to that
meadow half a mile away. Slowly at first, he duck-walked past ten tents
scattered across the floodplain. When the last of them was behind him, he
turned his face to the wind and ran as fast as his weakened legs and broken
ribs allowed.

De Chingé allowed himself three moments of regret while he
watched the broken and twisted hulk of his weapon crash backward beyond
weakened rail stops. The weapon tipped backward off the barge—too short by
sixty yards, but all that he had been allowed to build with the reduced
Confederate resources. The cannon barrel pointed toward the stars and dropped
heavily into the water. A loud, roaring splash signaled its contact with the
river.

Waves shot outward in ever widening circles, crashing into
the banks and flooding the first circle of troop tents, well above the normal
river level.

That was his signal to retreat. He’d mussed his uniform with
dirt and creases, removed his rank insignia and tugged at his hair and beard
until they stood out in odd spikes. His disarray allowed him to pass unnoticed
among the troops, except that he fled the scene of destruction while they
headed toward it.

His recently oiled knee joints worked splendidly, carrying
him through camp toward the open meadow faster than any normal man. His hearing
sensors detected the hiss of a balloon burner before he saw the flare. No one
should be looking this way to notice another fire. From the river, it should
look like any other campfire, periodically blocked from view by the movement of
men back and forth in front of it.

Humans had such limited eyesight and sense of perspective.
His mechanical eyes found the balloon’s exact location without failure. He
noted that the envelope was near fully inflated. He’d repaired it and set it up
with a partial load of hot air. The private who was supposed to “test” the
repairs surely had run at first sign of explosion on the river.

“Hop in,” Hyatt-Forsythe commanded from the basket. He
loosed all but the last two tethers. The balloon and basket strained against
the ropes, hovering nearly a foot off the ground, eager to dance with the wind
at upper levels. “Good thing the wind is from the east. It will carry us west
to headquarters without the delay of long tacks.”

“Yes.” De Chingé climbed in, bringing the last tethers with
him.

They slid upward into the chill mist.

“What did you do?” Hyatt-Forsythe demanded. “Not that I’m
ungrateful. But I need to report accurately and be certain of your change of
loyalty.” He worked the burner as he spoke, keeping a close eye on their
elevation as well as the activity below.

Flames from eight burning gunboats in the middle of the
river gave the chaos a garish light. De Chingé could still pick out in
mid-river, at the deepest spot, the cannon barrel pointing upward, a tombstone
marking the grave of his weapon. Not the graves of ten thousand men at the
point of impact five miles away.

“I have made sure that the river is clear enough for your
General to send his boats drifting downriver on the dark of the moon, so that
they can rendezvous with the army at the end of a forced march and ferry them
across the river to assault Vicksburg from its vulnerable south.”

Hyatt-Forsythe raised his eyebrows. “How did you know?”

“I deduced the tactic as the only reason worth risking an
experimental balloon and a trained observer.”

“If you can figure it out, then Pemberton can too.”

“I do not think so. He planned to take my weapon upriver and
use it to destroy General Grant’s headquarters from the safety of the river.”

“Whew,” Hyatt-Forsythe whistled through his teeth. “You had
that kind of accuracy?”

“I did.”

“And you destroyed it?”

“I could build it again if I choose to.”

“And what do you choose?”

“I don’t know. The truth, and responsibility for that truth,
is the best weapon of mass destruction. I have the choice to take
responsibility for my inventions. Or I could invent something morally
acceptable. Something I readily accept responsibility for. I think I’d like to
work more with the potentials of ectomorphic gel.”

“That sounds wise. The mines out west could sure use lights
that don’t eat air.”

“I could save lives rather than take them.”

“That is something Nate might have thought.”

“I have only one soul in this body,” de Chingé insisted.

“You sure about that?” Captain Thaddeus dropped an arm
around de Chingé’s shoulders.

“I am sorry that you have lost a brother.” What would it
have been like having a brother? In flashes of emotional vision he knew that he’d
have grown up to be a different man if he’d had family. His parents taken by
cholera on the voyage from France. He’d never had someone to talk with, to
share his triumphs or his frustration at failure. Someone to love.

As much as he wanted to love the beautiful Mathilde, she was
a courtesan. She was paid to love her clients, all of them, never just one.

“Are you certain I have lost my brother?” Hyatt-Forsythe
asked.

Dare he accept the implied offer? With a brother beside him
to vouch for his humanity, he need not worry about ever being enslaved, because
he was merely a machine. Property. “Perhaps you have not lost all of your
brother.” De Chingé offered his hand.

Hyatt-Forsythe grabbed it fiercely with one hand and clapped
the other on his shoulder. “Truth and responsibility,” Tad said. “Nate couldn’t
understand concepts like that. But he lived them daily. He couldn’t lie to save
his life. So he told the truth and accepted responsibility for his wrongdoings.”

“Yes.” De Chingé mused. “If you ever hear of The German
working for either side, I’d like to have this same conversation with him.
Truth and Responsibility.”

Return to Table of Contents

Shadow Conspiracy III

Clockwork Souls

Edited by Phyllis Irene Radford & Brenda W. Clough

Book View Café 2016
ISBN: 978-1-61138-617-2
Copyright © 2016 Book View Café Publishing
Cooperative

Cover art © 2016 Dave Smeds
“Civil War Soldier at Heritage Days” photograph © 2016 Lightpainter, Dreamstime

Cover Design: Dave Smeds

Proofreader: Nancy Jane Moore

Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre

Print Edition Interior Design by Marissa Doyle

ISBN 978-1-61138-617-2

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or portion thereof, in any form

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. Any real persons or place names mentioned are used in a fictional
manner.

Digital edition: 20160529vnm