by Jay Barnson
Winnie said, “No, sir, I'm sorry. You don't know us. We came to speak to you about an urgent matter.”
“What is so urgent that it cannot wait until morning?”
“We believe your life may be in danger.”
“Now that is highly improbable, Miss . . . ?”
“Jones, sir. Winona Jones.”
“Miss Jones, then. Your accent suggests that you are not from around here. Am I correct?”
“No, sir, I arrived just yesterday. But—”
“I take it,” he interrupted, “that you've read about me in the papers?”
“Of course I have,” Winnie said, not sure where this was leading.
“And did you know that I have had no less than four reporters interested in interviewing me since that Pennsylvania man referred to me as a 'deluded madman' in May?”
“He called you what?”
“While I would be delighted to provide your particular paper with yet another story about the crazy inventor from Carlton, at the moment I am attending to my supper. I would invite you to stop by the office during business hours, which begin at eight o'clock in the morning on Monday. I thank you for your interest, and I am certainly flattered by the attention from you young ladies, and sir, but I really must be . . .” He hesitated for a moment, recognizing Joshua.
Winnie shook her head in confusion. “I'm not a reporter. I'm a telegraph operator. I mean, there's a message you need to hear.”
De Falco's eyes narrowed. “I know the telegraph operator. His name is Kingston. He is a dreary man, but does his job competently enough. He would have told me if there was a message for me.”
“It's not for you; it's about you.”
“Good evening,” De Falco said, closing the door.
They retreated to the road. Winnie blinked away embryonic tears. “I was really hoping to meet Mr. De Falco when I came into town, but this is not how I envisioned it.”
Grace offered a sympathetic half-smile. “I don't think you made much of an impression on him, true. But it's not irredeemable, assuming he doesn't get himself kidnapped or killed in the morning.”
Joshua tapped his thigh, asking, “How to make impression?”
“How does one make an impression, indeed?” Winnie echoed for Grace's benefit.
“You are the one who has read all about him, right? What do the papers say about him?” asked Grace.
“He's an inventor, with a number of patents to his name. He is said to have a very curious and keen mind, attracted to applications of science more than theory. The press had a good deal to say about a couple of his contraptions two years ago. Unlike Mr. Edison, most have nothing to do with the telegraph. But there was one . . .” A faint hope took root. “Mr. Sayre, would you suppose that Mr. De Falco knows code?”
Joshua shrugged.
Winnie said, “We'd need to be careful and intrigue him, not annoy him. If he understands code, there may be another way to get him a warning. Your wind-up light . . . can it be turned off and on in a signal?” Joshua nodded, and she continued. “I think the device might intrigue a curious mind such as Mr. De Falco's. If he understands code, then the message should be enough to pique his interest as well.”
“What message?” Joshua drummed.
Winnie thought carefully. She had no doubt Joshua would repeat the message without error. “Mr. Sayre, please repeat this as often as you can, as clearly as you can: ‘STONE MEANS YOU HARM. YOUR WORK WILL BE STOLEN TOMORROW. WE HAVE PROOF.’”
Joshua wound his lighting device and sent the message by flashing the lights on and off. Slow and deliberate, Joshua took a full minute to deliver the message. He repeated it several times, pausing every third time to rewind the illuminator’s springs. Eventually, the curtains in De Falco’s window parted by a few degrees. After three more full cycles of the message, the curtains fell back into place.
“That's it, then,” Winnie said. “Mr. Sayre, you may stop. It is now up to him.”
Moments later, De Falco exited his front door, fully dressed from his hat to his boots. After locking his front door, he motioned for the group follow as he walked to his laboratory. He let them inside, lit two oil lamps, and attended to a large engine in the middle of the floor, with pipes and ducts branching off like a tree grown with mathematical precision. He adjusted the coal and water levels, lit the boiler, and then asked, “Who are your companions, Miss Jones?”
“Mr. Joshua Sayre and Miss Grace Anderson. They've lived here for quite some time. As I said, I've only come to town yesterday.”
“Yes, I believe I have seen Mr. Sayre around town before.” The boiler began to build up heat, and De Falco turned a large valve, routing steam to propel a turbine. As the turbine turned and built up speed, lights throughout the factory began to glow.
“I'm not very practiced at Morse code, Miss Jones. But if I understood Mr. Sayre's signal, you are accusing my newest employee of evil intentions, and claim that you have proof of such. I'd like to see it now, if you please.”
Joshua opened a satchel and produced the documents. Winnie explained the source of the messages, with Grace occasionally interjecting comments, and Joshua tapping out explanations. Francesco De Falco stood in silence as he looked over the evidence.
When they concluded, De Falco asked, “The sole source of this information is Mr. Sayre?”
Winnie nodded before the realization struck her. She'd put so much trust into Joshua, because . . . why? She'd felt sorry for him? Because she couldn't believe that someone so disabled and so gifted could plot mischief? Or had she been so proud of herself for discovering his secret that she wanted to believe he was beyond reproach? In following Joshua, into how much danger had she put herself and her cousin, and now possibly Mr. De Falco? She glanced back at Joshua, but his expression was unreadable.
Over the previous three years, she'd had far more conversations over the wire, in code, than in person. Everyone's signal—their “hand”—was a little different, like handwriting. One could come to understand a lot of things about an operator based on their signal. But what did she know about Joshua, and was she really a good judge of character?
“I believe him,” she resolved out loud.
De Falco nodded. “I understand. I'm just pointing out the obvious—that it could be a hoax or scheme on this young man's part. No offense, Mr. Sayre.”
Joshua tapped out, “Correct. But I tell truth.”
Though his confirmation added nothing new, Winnie found herself reassured by it. She translated for the others.
“So then tell me, Miss Jones, why wouldn't they send these messages fully encoded? That technology does exist, does it not?”
“Yes, sir. But I imagine encoded messages would have seemed suspicious, especially if you and he disappeared unexpectedly one day. Instead, these just look like he has close family in India.”
Grace asked, “Why would Mr. Stone be plotting against you?”
“If we do entertain this possibility, which I do so only reluctantly, then it would have more to do with the motivation of his employer. His real employer,” De Falco said. “I'll show you.”
De Falco took them to another area of the lab floor, where a large oiled canvas sheet covered something roughly six feet tall and wide, and four feet deep. Obtaining Joshua's help, he rolled back the covering. Winnie caught her breath.
Six roughly human-shaped objects of brass, steel, and tin stood secured in a wooden stand. Through gaps in their metal coverings, she could see an intricate array of gears and chains.
“Mechanical men!” gasped Grace.
“It has been a dream of mine, yes,” De Falco said proudly. “They are semi-autonomous but can receive simple instructions remotely by Morse code.”
“With a wire?” asked Winnie.
“Yes. The control panels are on the shelf behind me. They aren’t strictly necessary, but they automate several commands for demonstration purposes. As I said, I'm not very good at Morse code, myself.”
“T
hese two on the end”—he motioned to the two on the left, which seemed to be of the highest quality and most recent construction— “respond to audible tones at a certain frequency. They also recognize twice as many commands as their predecessors.”
Winnie and Joshua rushed to inspect the mechanical men more closely. “They are the most beautiful things I've ever seen,” Winnie said.
“Why would somebody be willing to kill you over these?” asked Grace, not as impressed by the devices.
“People at both the U.S. Government and the East India Trading Company heard about my creations and thought that these machines would make effective soldiers. I have received substantial offers from both parties to create military prototypes.”
“Did you accept?” asked Grace.
“No, but not for strictly moral reasons. As much as I care for these constructs, I would much rather bullets or cannonballs strike them than, say, a young man from Carlton. My mechanical men can be far more easily repaired or replaced. But I cannot make them more discriminating on the battlefield—and of course, using sound to control them amidst the noise of combat would be practically useless. If armed, I believe they'd pose a danger to anyone around them, including allies. I won't allow that, and I am not particularly interested in focusing my efforts on solving those problems.”
Joshua began to tap excitedly. “Stone's messages from East India Company? Rejected refusal?”
Winnie translated, and De Falco nodded. “They had problems with native forces about twenty years ago, as I recall. Something about guns or cartridges violating the native soldiers' religious beliefs. They mutinied against the company, and it caused an international incident. It very nearly put an end to the East India Trading Company. I would assume they would value troops with unquestioning loyalty.”
Behind them, a voice with a distinct British accent said, “You assume correctly. We are anxious to reproduce your prototypes.” They turned to see a man with thinning, steel-colored hair. He held a revolver in each hand, pointed steadily at them.
“Stone!” De Falco growled.
“The airship won't be here for a few hours, but as I was making preparations, I saw your light signal. I would really love to know how you found out about me. Play nicely, and you'll survive to explain it to me en route to India.”
“India?” asked Grace.
“The wire is faster than an airship,” said Stone. “I am afraid I cannot leave you behind to warn any authorities while we're still over American territory. Now, get into the storage room. Behave yourselves, and maybe we can let you go when we take on coal in California. Make trouble, and we'll dump your bodies where they will never be found.”
“I can't go to California, or India! I'm getting married on Sunday!” cried Grace.
“Then you shouldn't have gotten yourself involved in affairs that did not concern you! Now, all of you, into the storage room.” He motioned to a door with one of the guns.
They filed into the unlit room. Stone closed and locked the door.
Joshua wound up his light and illuminated the cramped area. Full of cleaning supplies, machinery, and tools, the room seemed to have defied multiple attempts at organization.
“At least he didn't shoot us,” Winnie half-whispered, trying to reassure herself as much as anyone else.
“No trace no leave bodies,” Joshua said with soft taps against a shelf. His signaling “hand” had changed, Winnie noted. It was no longer swift and confident, and he left out punctuation. Though his face was still blank, he was as terrified as the rest of them. Winnie opted not to translate his comment for Grace.
De Falco said, “Stone has had weeks to plan this. I expect he has fabricated evidence that I'm leaving of my own volition. You three, however, have changed all that. Anyone who knows you came to my house tonight will draw obvious conclusions. It's quite possible that the sheriff will arrive before the airship leaves, or at least wire the authorities to seize the ship the next time it takes on coal.”
Winnie and Grace looked at each other guiltily. De Falco read the silence between them. “I see. Nobody knows where you are, and we should not expect a rescue. As I have no desire to leave Carlton today either, we should make plans. I am sure we can find things we can use as weapons.”
Although they found tools and chunks of small machinery that would suffice as makeshift clubs, they would be impossible to conceal. Winnie found herself drawn to a small, thin tube with a mouthpiece on one end and a sliding plunger on the other, marked at intervals with lines and symbols. “What is this?” she asked De Falco.
“That's a pitch-pipe. I used it when I was creating the command receiver for Emilio and Vincenzo. I used it to set the frequencies at which they responded to code.” At Winnie's quizzical look, he chuckled and said, “Yes, I named my mechanical men.”
Winnie picked up the pipe, and slid the plunger in and out. She didn't dare blow into it now, for fear of alerting Stone. Resolving herself, she looked up at De Falco and asked, “Will you teach me how to command your mechanical men?”
As the night progressed, Joshua grew worse. After the first plans were discussed, he withdrew, clenching his eyes shut and covering his ears with his hands, huddled and rocking against the wall. When Winnie asked him what was wrong, he removed one hand from his ear, keeping his eyes closed, and tapped, “Ants.”
Winnie held up the illuminator and searched, but found nothing. “I don’t see any ants, Mr. Sayre.”
“Ants inside me,” he responded.
Winnie was quiet for a long moment, unsure of how to respond. Finally, she said, “Those aren’t real ants.”
“I know,” Joshua said. “Could stop real ants.”
For all his intelligence and skill, Joshua’s demons went beyond muteness. Winnie was so used to communicating in code that it had been easy to forget that. She had to admit, her own fears and worries felt a little like insects crawling up her spine and under her skin, too. If she couldn’t filter out these feelings and selectively blind herself to the desperation they faced, she could see herself overwhelmed by despair.
For all she knew, Joshua lacked that emotional control.
She sat down beside him, and said, “Just focus on what we talked about, Mr. Sayre. Focus on what we need to do when we get aboard the airship. We’ll follow the plan, and we will be okay. Just focus on what needs to be done.”
It did not work immediately, but over time, he seemed to get better. At some point before dawn, after their limited preparations were complete, fear had temporarily given way to discomfort and rising frustration within the confines of the storage room.
Joshua's illumination device had been tied up with salvaged wires to Grace's arm, hidden by her sleeve. If Stone didn't look too closely, and if she kept her arms folded, and if it didn't come loose, then perhaps the bulge wouldn't be noticed. Winnie hadn't recognized so many ifs when they formulated their plans earlier that night. Now that it was too late to change anything, the potential failures loomed.
The darkness and silence that followed seemed to help Joshua. At one point, Winnie thought he had fallen asleep. The respite did not last long. Outside, they heard male voices and the sound of equipment being moved. Winnie checked the pitch-pipe tucked inside her skirt under her own blouse. It didn't feel very secure, but she didn't know how to improve on it. She found herself entertaining a futile hope that Stone would forget about them, leaving them locked up as he fled with the mechanical men in the airship, and that they'd be able to escape or be rescued by the other workers on Monday morning.
In the darkness, she heard a message lightly tapped on the floor. “Scared.” Joshua was awake.
“Me, too.” Winnie answered in kind, tapping softly on the floor
“It’s worse when I’m scared,” came Joshua’s response.
She didn’t know how to help him. “Focus on plan. We will be okay.” In spite of her words, her own terror was rising. In a few minutes, they could all be dead.
A key rattled in the lo
ck, and the door swung open. Stone and two other men stood at the door, silhouetted by the faint light of early dawn through the skylights. Stone trained one revolver on the group, his second gun tucked into his neatly pressed trousers, and commanded them to exit the storage room one at a time.
A swarthy, bearded man with a scarred face and a large, curved knife at his waist roughly checked De Falco's coat for hidden weaponry. Grace kept her arms folded, carefully concealing Joshua's illuminator. She looked more frightened than deceptive, an effect augmented by the very real dread on her face. The third man—a short-haired fellow in a long coat and with an almost military bearing—looked them over with a focused stare, but did not act as though he noted anything amiss.
They were marched, under the constant threat of Stone's gun, up a set of stairs and outside onto a raised platform behind the building. An airship was moored at the platform, bridged by planks that slowly rocked and heaved as the airship swayed in the early morning breeze. Winnie and her companions were forced across the terrifying, makeshift gangway into the airship, where they were met by a fourth kidnapper, a youth no older than Joshua, who directed them through a door into a storage hold behind the main cabin.
The space was not much larger than the room in which they'd spent the night. It was filled with food and crates of equipment and paperwork taken from the factory. More importantly, it contained the mechanical men.
The door slammed shut behind them. It bore no lock, but there was no other exit but back through the main cabin. De Falco moved to the machine he referred to as “Emilio” and opened a panel on its back. Winnie and Grace worked together to loosen the wire ties on the illuminator, retrieving it from Grace's sleeve. Winnie handed the bundle to De Falco, who, with Joshua's help, connected it with the wires to the mechanical man's engine. It couldn't power the entire machine, but it would work as a silent, makeshift starter. Emilio had enough fuel for perhaps three minutes of operation.
Muffled sounds of argument penetrated the door, followed by bumps as the planks were pulled back into the main cabin. Joshua’s eyes darted back and forth, his jaw quivering in a mechanical motion He moved unsteadily to the wall, and pressed his ear close to listen. As he did so, he pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, as if to block out the sight of the room.