Kill the Night

by Terry, Mark

  Tesla stood next to him and pulled a book from the shelf. “Of all things, I like books best.”

  “The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read. But Nikola, tell me, what is the fascination with electricity and all the experiments?”

  “I wish to improve the state of living for all mankind.”

  Clemens nodded. “I can understand that. I myself have a patent for a strap to tighten shirts at the waist.” He chuckled. “It never really caught on, but one garment maker has started using them for ladies undergarments. I have made a good bit of money and hope to create new inventions.”

  Tesla put the book back on the shelf. “Money is not object. Nor fame. I believe an inventor’s endeavor is essentially lifesaving. Whether we harness forces,” he looked at Clemens and then continued, “improve devices, or provide new comforts and conveniences, we are adding to the safety of existence.”

  “Inventions are more than often simply curiosities. Sure, people adapt them into their lives. But if they make tea with a better teapot they are still making tea. And they will still make tea,” Clemens replied.

  Tesla turned to face him fully. “Really now? Suppose you could see an invention that would completely transform how people work, where people live, and could transform the entire landscape of the globe.”

  Clemens took a deep draw from his mouth, exhaled a cloud of aromatic smoke and grinned broadly. “There are basically two types of people. People who accomplish things, and people who claim to have accomplished things. Which are you, sir?”

  Tesla made a motion for Clemens to follow, and walked out of the library. “My parents wanted me to go into the clergy, but an outbreak of cholera in my village killed dozens and left me in a weakened condition. I could only wander the mountains in my free time. I agreed to my parents I would get well, if they would agree to let me attend technical college.” He smiled. “The next fall I attended Polytechnic School in Gratz.”

  They descended a thin circular staircase to a garage under the laboratory, Tesla before Clemens.

  Tesla looked back. “During my wandering treks in the mountains, I discovered level of concentration and vision I had not known simultaneously. I can see the project in my mind and work it out completely without ever putting a pencil or a wrench into action.” He stopped and paused before opening the door at the end of staircase.

  Tesla slid the barn door aside on its rolling hinges to reveal an automobile unlike anything the world had yet seen.

  Clemens peered dubiously at the machine sitting in Tesla’s garage before him. The automobiles of the day were still mostly based on the horse carriage design of the last two hundred years. Only a few cars from Peugeot and Daimler had started assuming newer, sleeker designs for a new class of “racers.”

  Tesla, however, had assembled something altogether different. He had removed the carriage and most of the body from the Peugeot Type 15 chassis, leaving its three point suspension and sliding gear transmission in place. In fact, they were the few working parts left. The horizontal twin engine in the rear had been removed. The steering wheel which sat vertical above the front axle extended through a dashboard above the rear axle, where two bucket seats were secured to the frame.

  Any semblance of a normal car vanished at that point. In the center of the frame sat an AC motor, a little more than three-feet long and two-feet in diameter, with a twelve-volt storage battery attached. Two very thick cables ran from the motor into the dashboard. Even more astonishing, a six-foot antenna protruded from just behind the seat compartment.

  Tesla leaned behind the dashboard and adjusted the dials of a small, compact device.

  “What is that, Nikola?”

  “This is the power receiver.”

  “Receiver?” Clemens looked confused.

  Still working the gadget without looking up, Tesla continued, “Electric vehicles are the future. But the problem is almost no electric infrastructure exists outside the city limits anywhere in America—or the world, for that matter.” Satisfied, he looked up. “My AC power plants will change that limitation, eventually. Edison’s DC current can be effective within two miles, at which point a relay station is required to extend the range.”

  Clemens nodded.

  “So, Henry Ford is working on a system of mass production for his petrol vehicles. If he succeeds, riders will be able to travel wider distances than they currently can with electric ones.” Tesla motioned Mark Twain to the passenger side. “Please.”

  The pair climbed into the seat buckets. Tesla adjusted a couple more dials, removed two special tubes from his coat pocket and screwed them into place.

  “How does it work?” Clemens asked, leaning over.

  Tesla merely waved a hand in dismissal and held a key up for Clemens to see before inserting it into the side of the receiver.

  “What is that?”

  “That’s another invention of mine, the ignition switch.” The inventor gently pushed down on the accelerator and the car moved forward.

  “I don’t hear a thing,” Clemens said.

  “Precisely.” From a small compartment, the inventor handed Clemens a pair of riding goggles. “You’ll need them.”

  Placing them on his head, Samuel Clemens muttered, “Apparently, there is nothing that cannot happen today.”

  Interlude 14

  Sunday, March 12, 1893, 3:18 p.m.

  Somewhere in Hudson Valley, New York

  The late-century depressions made congested cities difficult places for respite. With greater availability and allowing for faster transportation, automobiles encouraged tourism. People sought not urban destinations, but rural terminuses, as scenery soothed the weariness of sixteen-hour workdays.

  The electric auto barreled down the horse trail. Samuel Clemens gripped the dashboard with both hands, his face ashen. The car came to a road crossing, and Tesla slowed, pulling back slowly on the hand brake. On the southeast corner, a man and wife sat on the open ground on a large blanket in their afternoon dress, two children running about in traditional sailing outfits.

  The visitors to this area were men, women and children of the middle class from the other mercantile centers on the East Coast such as Boston, Philadelphia and Baltimore. These travelers hiked, biked and used public transport up and down the by-ways of Hudson Valley, the city’s eclectic architecture dominated by French inspired classicism overlooking the horizon.

  One of the women wore a two-tone afternoon dress. The man wore a vest under an open coat as they watched the children run. It was commonplace to not take food on a picnic with the exception of some tin cocoa or cracker boxes, but plenty to drink in thermoses or jugs. People commonly spent a long day on a picnic outing and then had a hearty meal when they returned home.

  On the northeastern corner, four park tables were placed at odd angles on the scrabbly ground, with elderly men playing board games seated in the sunlight, eating cheese sandwiches and fruit.

  On the west side of the street, a young man with a baseball glove in pleated trousers and a flat cap came up to the car. “Excuse me sir,” the young man said hesitantly.

  Samuel Clemens turned and smiled at the young man, “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you Mark Twain, sir?”

  “Why, yes, I am,” said the writer.

  “My parents dragged me along on this trip to New York. Anything worth seeing?”

  The writer pursed his lips thoughtfully, then spoke as the auto moved. “New York is a great secret,” he called over his shoulder, “not only to those who have never seen it, but to the majority of its own citizens!”

  The electric auto continued down the miles of carriage views along the Hudson River, the naturalistic landscape passing by. Clemens looked over at Tesla who only seemed truly relaxed once they were outside the city limits.

  “That sign said we’re almost to Sleepy Hollow!” Clemens shouted, over the rushing wind.

  “That’s right!” Tesla shouted back at him. “Of course, Sleepy
Hollow changed its name in 1883 partly as a response to Washington Irving’s publication.”

  Clemens had no response to that. Another hill came up and the vehicle bounced over it, jostling the author. “How fast could we be going?” A flock of doves broke into flight before this speeding monster, and one nearly collided with the famous writer.

  “We’ve broken the current land speed record!” Tesla shouted.

  Samuel Clemens looked astonished and gripped the dashboard even tighter. “How do you know that?”

  Tesla tapped a dial on the dashboard. “I invented the speed indicator!”

  A four-way trail crossing came into view with a two-horse trailer on their right. Tesla jogged the car slightly to the left and sailed past the astonished animals. They reared up and turned violently to the left. The wagon tipped and then went over on its side.

  Clemens, having watched the destruction, turned to face forward. He stared at Tesla through his goggles. The inventor appeared to have taken no notice as the car barreled onward, bucking and jolting down the uneven road.

  Interlude 15

  Sunday, March 12, 1893, 4:14 p.m.

  East River Pier, New York City

  Wedderburn stood and glanced about the stateroom. His sparse belongings were packed. He saw his jacket lying on the bed and picked it up, looking it over. He put it on, then pulled out a horsehair brush and rubbed it gently across the lapels and sleeves.

  He remembered walking along the Quai de Conti with Allefra as she recounted her afternoon, being treated rudely by a pair of students who had sat down next to her in a café around the corner from her home and began discussing their political ideas so loudly she could not think. “Vive la folie! Vive le animalism! Vive le Diable!” (Long live the madness! Long live the animalism! Long live the Devil!)

  “Do not drink that,” she had said gravely, touching the student’s glass. “It will make you go mad!”

  Wedderburn had half resolved to make a visit to the café the next evening. She could see his irritation and half-embraced him, her hands upon his firm and broad shoulders. She had brushed some lint or dust from him and looked at him with real affection. After that, he hadn’t been upset anymore.

  The memory made his knees weak and he steadied himself and sat back on the bed, holding his face in his hands. He remembered the smallest features of her face, her fine scent. He closed his eyes and steadied himself, trying to regain his composure. He hadn’t been able to put her out of his mind for more than a few moments since she had died in his arms.

  His body trembled with fury and loss. Merely sitting upright became difficult in his emotional state. His arm reached out and found the end table. His fingers brushed on a small item. The small iron box given to him for his trip. He held it in his lap and continued to cry.

  

  When the Minnehaha arrived at the East River port of call, Captain M’Grath set the crew to celebrating its arrival. As he finished marking the charts for the next leg of his voyage, he heard the carriage on the dock. He peered down from the bridge to see a magnificent, black stagecoach with four majestic, white mares pull up alongside the clipper and stop. M’Grath noted that the stagecoach had no outrider, the single rider on horseback that usually rode in front of the carriage to clear the path.

  Why a wealthy traveler would travel without an outrider seemed odd, and a closed coach with quarter lights and an imperial looked strange. It still made for one of the finer riding machines the captain had ever seen.

  As M’Grath watched, the coachman climbed down from his perch. Finally a short man limped down the ramp to greet him. The man had a worn and tattered sack coat more than a decade old.

  The limping man made a couple of gestures with his hands. The coachman shrugged and climbed back up on his perch. The other man turned, came back up the walkway, and disappeared into the private section.

  The sounds of Wedderburn’s approaching manservant broke up his detachment. Milo came through the portal and braced his coat more tightly around himself.

  “Sir, your carriage is ready. I will bring the rest of your bags.”

  “Thank you, Milo.”

  Wedderburn’s face wore no evidence of crying, just a solemn, fixed expression—like a thousand-yard stare—firmly in place.

  “We have come far, and we may have yet far to go, Milo.”

  “Yes, sir.” Milo nodded.

  “Our quarry remained on the run for more than a year. He moved back and forth across Europe several times. Once we came within a day of him in Rome, and we lost a week chasing empty luggage into Serbia believing he had run home. But here in America, it is a different kind of chase.”

  Milo cocked his head. “Sir?”

  Wedderburn smiled, but not in a humorous way. “We have followed him into a lawless wilderness of cowboys and primitives—frontier justice. Where he treads, he brings ruin, Milo. We will do the world a service and bring frontier justice.” Wedderburn stood up and strode past Milo and out the door.

  Milo nodded vigorously. “Yes! Yes, sir!”

  When Milo glanced back at the room, he noted the small lump of metal sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked at it quizzically, then tapped the solid iron shape against the top of the nearby bureau. He set it down with a look of astonishment and followed his employer out.

  On the bridge, M’Grath waited for the passenger to reappear. The time seemed like hours, but lasted only minutes. When the short limping man again stepped from the ship, he carried a crate on his back that looked easily twice his weight.

  The man must have the legs and back of a bull to move with such a heavy load! M’Grath watched as he actually set the crate on end, then picked it up with both hands and lifted it vertically high enough to slide onto the roof of the carriage. If he hadn’t seen it himself, he would have assumed such a physical feat impossible.

  The short man spoke to the coachman for only a moment, gesturing to the crate, and the coachman set about tying the crate to the roof while the man limped back aboard a second time.

  Wedderburn crossed the portal and stepped down the plank toward the waiting carriage. Halfway down, he paused.

  “The New World,” he whispered.

  He climbed into the coach as Milo shuffled up behind, two huge suitcases under his arms. He thought once again of the man he had committed to chasing down.

  There are ways to make men pay and ways to make men suffer. I will make you suffer, Nikola Tesla. Oh, how you will suffer. If you have love, I will snatch it from you. If you have dreams, I will deny them to you. If you have hope, I will squash it. You cannot avoid the fate that set you and me on this inevitable collision.

  M’Grath watched the figure cross the gangplank and then stop. Ducking his head below the window, he waited. He held his breath until he heard the sounds of horse hoofs and the creak of the carriage wheels moving away. His breath came out in a loud whoosh, and he gasped for air, holding his hand over his heart. Unsettled with himself, he stood up quickly and straightened his uniform, confused and alarmed at his behavior and reaction.

  What had set him off, so? Then he thought, a rich and eccentric noble from France would hardly have need of the six-shooters hanging on each hip. He looked like a duelist. The captain waved a hand in dismissal, gathered up the last of his papers and left the bridge. A fine whiskey waits for me at the bar.

  Interlude 16

  Sunday, March 12, 1893, 5:01 p.m.

  Nikola Tesla’s Laboratory,

  New York City

  When the modified Peugeot pulled into Tesla’s garage, the last rays of sunlight were dropping behind Fifth Avenue. Samuel Clemens trademark snowy hair hung over his eyes, and his face was slightly sunburned from exposure. However, when he peeled off his goggles, he looked over at Tesla with the excitement of a schoolboy discovering a secret fishing hole. “I tell people that twenty years from now, they will be more disappointed at the things they didn’t do than the things they did. You, sir, will never suffer from such a malady.
You are a man of doings.”

  Tesla looked at Clemens sheepishly. “I wonder if people will accept my inventions.”

  “Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them, the rest of us could not succeed,” Clemens said, climbing out of the vehicle with wobbly legs.

  Clemens set a hand on Tesla’s shoulder and the inventor jumped as if hit with an electric shock, pulling away. “Please.”

  Eyebrows raised, the author pulled his arm back and slid the hand into his pocket.

  Tesla quickly began pulling a tarp over the mobile miracle.

  “I must begin preparations for Chicago. Exposition is first chance for people to truly see AC current in full effect. I have bid with Westinghouse for entire event!”

  Clemens, eyeing Tesla, took a corncob pipe from his pocket and filled it with tobacco. “I heard Mr. Thomas Edison placed a bid with the Columbian Exposition for the contract to illuminate the fair.”

  Tesla stopped and nodded. “But we underbid by almost half. Too much copper wiring for DC current, you see. Too expensive. AC lighting, it’s much cheaper. We will give world greatest lighting display ever!” he proclaimed, throwing his arms into the air.

  A knock came at the garage door. Tesla jumped with a start and turned toward the door, but didn’t move. Clemens watched as the inventor rubbed his hands over his coat and then moved slowly toward the door. Tesla opened it and stepped back.

  Two men stood in the waning daylight. One stood about five feet eight and twice as wide as his partner. His arms looked like tree trunks. The other man looked over six feet tall and very thin. They were both wearing faded blue waistcoats and trousers, each having been patched and repaired numerous times, and stained with the dust and grime of the construction site or laying the rail stock. Both had deeply tanned Slavic features.

  “Polski?” Tesla asked, softly. Neither man said anything.

  “Česky?” No sign of understanding. A look of frustration crossed Tesla’s face, then dawning embarrassment. “Hrvatski?”