by Terry, Mark
Both men nodded.
Tesla turned to Clemens. “They’re my cousins from the old country. I’d forgotten I’d sent for them.” He turned back to the pair. “Gdje si?” Tesla asked.
“Bihac!” said the thinner one.
“Gospic,” said Muscles. Neither man had yet made a friendly facial gesture.
Tesla nodded. “Smiljan.” Then he patted Muscles on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Grgor!” He nodded at the thin man, and addressed him, “Simon!”
The two men remained impassive, and Tesla kept nodding and pointing to a stack of crates. “Dal bedny na voze.”
The two men nodded and went over to the stack along the wall.
Tesla turned to Clemens. “They are mother’s sister’s sons. They will help me move to Colorado. I may not return New York for some time.”
“Just how many languages do you speak, sir?” Clemens asked admiringly.
Tesla shook his head. “I forget.”
Simon and Grgor lifted a couple of crates that looked too heavy for four normal men with barely a grunt, and loaded them onto the large wagon in the courtyard. Tesla watched them for a couple of trips. Then satisfied they knew what they were doing, he went to the wall furthest from the crates and pushed. A massive section of the wall clicked open, and Tesla grunted slightly as he pushed the massive portal inward. It moved several feet before Tesla stopped and motioned for Clemens to join him.
Clemens walked amongst the various tables with every manner of machine and glass tube upon them. On some tables, varieties of fluid bubbled over Bunsen burners. On others, cloudy vapors formed in tubes above layers of dry ice. On one table sat a cage of pigeons. A small above-ground swimming pool filled one side of the room. A man-sized metal object that looked almost like a submarine sat in the water. How would one ride something too small to accommodate even a child.
Clemens stopped to more closely observe what appeared to be a square metal plate at least two feet on each side and more than an inch thick sitting upon a wooden table with legs thicker than a man’s waist. More remarkably, a hole big enough to put his fist through had been made through the center. “Nikola, this is extraordinary. What did this?”
Tesla appeared from behind a large panel. “Oh, never mind about that. Just some experimenting. Nothing practical. This more interesting.” Tesla held up part of a resonating coil in one hand and a light bulb in the other.
Simon and Grgor were nearly finished loading the wagon. Grgor jumped atop the stack of crates to cinch down the last of the roping tightly. The light in Tesla’s garage went dark. Simon came out the garage door, slipped it closed behind him, and threw the latch. When he turned around, he noticed the horses were acting strangely, throwing their heads back and forth, bumping into each other, wide eyed and nervous.
Looking at each other, Simon and Grgor looked up and down the city street. There were a few people walking, but no one anywhere close by. No one paid any attention to them. They boarded the cart, backed it up and made their way down the street, looking back occasionally.
Stepping back several feet, Tesla moved behind the control panel. Clemens stood in the center of the laboratory with a light bulb in his hand, looking skeptical.
“Ready?” Tesla asked.
Clemens drew on his pipe, exhaled and nodded. A rising, humming pitch from the AC motor emanated behind them. The light bulb in his hands shined. No wires, yet the bulb shone bright.
Tesla walked over, beaming. “My coil will light up entire city without wires.”
Clemens looked at the light bulb in his hands, turning it around and around. “It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction must make sense.”
“I studied the Vedas in Sanskrit when it came to me. With my conical coil I have achieved tension of one hundred million volts, wirelessly, over twenty miles.”
Clemens looked at Tesla, amazed, tapping out his pipe ash.
“But the problem is generator.” Tesla paced as he got more animated. “To achieve such feat continuously, it would be too large. I am convinced small, more compact transformer can be constructed. We could put on street corners and would be no more noticeable than lamplights today.” The inventor nodded as he continued, “Someday, machinery will run by power obtainable from anywhere. Throughout space is energy. This aether is life giving force of universe. We will someday learn to tap velocity. Do you understand what means? Endless supply of power!”
Clemens packed his pipe again. He searched for a way to change the subject. “Well, seeing as how it is nearly dinnertime, I wondered if you might join me for a bit of food. Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like.”
“It's what?” Tesla shouted. He turned to the windows. Small windows encircled Tesla’s laboratory. The sun had set behind the New York horizon. “No. It’s late! You must go! Too many things to do. Too many things to do. Too many things to do.”
Before he realized it, Samuel Clemens found himself standing on the step of Tesla’s laboratory, the front door shutting behind him. After closing, a dramatic dragging and clanging sound could be heard, like a huge bolt being dragged and locked into place.
Clemens took a drag on his corn cob before stepping off the front step. A five-penny carriage slowed, but he did not signal it to stop.
A moment later, blazing light bloomed from the windows of Tesla’s laboratory. A faint hum could be heard emanating from within the brick building. Clemens shook his head and walked on.
Across the street from a second floor terrace, back in the shadows of the building, a figure watched Samuel Clemens go.
Interlude 17
Sunday, March 12, 1893, 9:47 p.m.
Nikola Tesla’s Laboratory,
New York City
The enormous bell, slung for the purpose, rocked back and forth in the small wooden shed in Central Park. Volunteers in their red helmets and shirts streamed from bar rooms and shuttered shops. They came from the north, the south, the east, and the west, yelling and shouting. The new red engines, the pride of the station, rolled out.
The building on South Fifth Avenue belched smoke from cracked windows, and flames poured forth into the night. Huggers and haulers, helpers on the Volunteer Fire Brigades, were already on the street as the engines pulled up. Combined, the steam engines belched nearly as much dark smoke into the sky as the burning structure, and for a while, the only light was from the dim oil lamps on the street and from curious citizens who awoke and lit their lamps as they came to their windows to watch. Shiny axes and coils of brass socket leather glinted in the moonlight as firemen raced each other to the scene in bravado. Some took their axes to the weaker wall partitions, trying to deny the fire fuel. Others secured their hoses to the hand pumps and blue streams of water jetted forth into the blaze.
The night darkened with the smoke created by the water hitting the flames, hissing and popping. As the firemen subdued the fire, several of them patted each other on the back. A tremendous crash shook the street as the roof caved in and the sky lit up with showers of sparks. Men ran to and fro, trying to make sure another fire didn’t start on a second building and start the whole dangerous exercise all over again.
Two police officers in their dark blues watched from across the street and the embers dampened. Once all were accounted for, and the cleanup began, the mood lightened.
One leatherhead turned to the other and spoke in a thick Irish brogue, “They get here a lot quicker than those horse drawn contraptions, don’t you know.”
“Yuh,” the ginger with the chin curtain nodded. “Lucky they got the new water pumps in this part of the city, too.”
“Oh yeah,” drawled Irish, “I think red is a sight too much for me, though.”
“Eh, that’s just the firemen showin’ off. It’s how they distinguish themselves,” Beard pointed out.
“Distinguish themselves? Aye, but every other fire engine is red, too.”<
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“Well, that’s because it’s the most expensive color.”
Irish sighed, “Who owned the building?”
Beard shrugged. “Some lunatic, worked all hours. Used the place as a laboratory or something. Probably got careless with his experiments.”
The two fireman chuckled and muttered in unison, “Scientists.”
Interlude 18
Sunday, March 12, 1893, 10:15 p.m.
The Battery, New York City
The solitary figure in the long coat walked quickly but silently through the back streets and alleys. The night and the dark were his cohorts, his comfort. Here and there he caught glimpse of a shadow or a slight movement, but nothing that aroused him. The denizens of the moonlight lingered about, and seemed to emerge to watch him pass, as though watching a figure of notoriety or royalty.
Three cats leapt on top of garbage cans and peered at him without hiss or growl. From a grating across the way, two large wharf rats emerged and stood on their haunches to observe, as though rats and felines had a temporary truce while this mysterious figure strode through their domain. When he had passed, one of the cats leapt down and chased the rats back through the grate.
Wedderburn emerged from the alley near the edge of the Battery. He could see the lights of Ellis Island across the water. Strolling across Castle Garden, he could hear the sounds of several fishing boats chugging through the bay on their way to an early haul. From somewhere in the din, the telltale sound of a steamboat paddle-wheel filled the night. Then the sound of a female crying in pain and a hand slapping a face broke the silence.
As Wedderburn approached, he saw two men wearing the look of fishermen or dock workers, leers on their faces, as a small woman with long blonde hair struggled between them. One of the men had shaved his head clean and wore a derby. The other had a scruff of red hair underneath a moth eaten Homburg.
The woman fought and pushed away from Derby, only to be dragged into the arms of Homburg. The two men laughed. The woman screamed again for help, but the word stuck in her throat with another slap. This time, a hand viciously tore at the front of her corset. The woman slumped to her knees, crying. The two men bent down to grab her when the voice called out of the dark.
“I think you boys ought to give it a rest,” the voice lost its European accent. The two hoods didn’t even pause. Two switchblades glinted in the moonlight. Wedderburn took a step back. A twig snapped behind him, but he didn’t turn around.
“Looks like we got us a good Samaritan boys,” a deep voice said from directly behind him.
Wedderburn heard a few soft chuckles in the midnight air over both his shoulders. They were moving in behind him from all directions. He could smell their rank.
Definitely from the docks. Probably no more than fish wrappers, Wedderburn thought.
Derby and Homburg took another step forward. The woman on the ground cackled, her wide grin showing her stained and missing teeth. The long blonde wig came off her head to reveal brown dreadlocks underneath. A couple of hoots and howls from the brush nearby, and Wedderburn realized he had run into a marauding band.
Derby grinned through rotting teeth and motioned at Wedderburn’s feet.
“You’re such a charitable fellow. Come to save the lass. How about you charitably provide those fine boots you’re wearing there, mister? Come on now, off with them.”
Wedderburn felt the air shift behind him as something approached his head. He moved slightly to his right and felt the iron pipe rush through the air. His left hand chopped down on the back of the man’s neck. The man wore no hat, and from the receding hairline, Wedderburn guessed he had a couple decades on the two men in front of him. Homburg lunged with his blade and Wedderburn caught him by the wrist. A quick twist and a snap and the man shrieked. He thrust he palm of his hand to the man’s nose forcing his head to snap back. Homburg’s eyes rolled back in his head as he toppled backward like a felled tree.
Derby looked worried, but then his eyes narrowed and he grew a wicked grin.
“Big Six!” he shouted.
Wedderburn sensed more movement from behind him, from the left, and from the right. He spun around and delivered a paralyzing solar plexus blow to the closest man, a pudgy little figure with weight lifter’s arms. He could hear the wind rush out of the man and a small squeaking sound as he was lifted off his feet. There came an ugly crunch of snapping bone as the weight lifter hit a tree and slid to the ground. The second man appeared to have a bit of skill. He had a pair of fighting sticks, and he wielded them with some ability.
“Eskrima!” Wedderburn exclaimed joyfully. He took a step back and his left foot came to rest on the iron pipe next to the still motionless thug. A flick of his well-leathered foot and the pipe flew into his hands. The man shouted in fury and rushed. Wedderburn’s feet never moved. In the space of a breath, he swung the iron and broke the first stick, then the second, and then the thug’s jaw.
The hollow click of a firearm being cocked told Wedderburn that the martial arts show had been a decoy attack, as he suspected. Wedderburn tossed the flaps of his long coat behind him to reveal the .38 Long Colts strapped to each hip.
Derby shouted a warning, “Look—” He got nothing more out before the first bullet slammed between his eyes.
Big Six turned out to be quite a large man. All six and a half feet and three hundred and fifty pounds of him. The bullet that slammed into his gut didn’t put him down, but he couldn’t hold the short-barreled shotgun straight in his hands anymore. The boomstick went off harmlessly into the ground. Two other grime-covered goons hurried from the brush. One wielded a large knife, the other a cleaver, and both had a rancid odor that rolled off them in the evening breeze.
Definitely fish cutters.
Wedderburn raised his guns to plug them both, but before he could pull the triggers Big Six bear-hugged him from behind and Cleaver took a swing at Wedderburn’s left gun hand.
The blade sliced through the sleeve of the Gunslinger’s coat and that really angered him. His foot went up into the man’s crotch with a sickening crack.
The kid with the deadly blade only paused briefly at the brutal counterattack, and then lunged. Wedderburn leapt over the man’s knife and locked his legs around the man’s neck.
With Big Six still clinging to him, Wedderburn used his legs to cut off the man’s air. The man, in turn, brought his hands to his head to try to pry himself loose. Big Six shook him, but that only drew Wedderburn closer to the trapped, gasping hooligan between his legs. When his knees were around the man’s ears, Wedderburn gave a quick jerk and snapped his neck like a twig.
Big Six roared with anger, but the gut shot had its effect and his grip loosened. One of Wedderburn’s boots came down on Big Six’s left foot with a loud snap. The big man let loose with a high pitched squeal and gripped his foot in agony. Wedderburn picked up the iron pipe and turned around. Big Six’s face twisted in agony and he rushed, his mouth open in a silent scream. The giant man’s eyes were red with fury, and went cloudy as Wedderburn stuck the pipe through his throat.
The woman with whom the men had been grappling started running as soon as the guns went off. The stranger put a bullet in poor Big Six’s belly. She headed for the only thing in sight, Castle Clinton. Her breath came in ragged heaves, but she was still close enough to hear the last death rattle of her fellow marauders reach her across the night breeze.
She ran through an opening in the construction area and slipped into the empty building. Dust floated like soup in the dark hallway, occasionally revealing fingers of moonlight through the old ceiling. A few wooden benches sat to one side, several old tables to the other.
She walked softly through the darkness, her hands outstretched in case she stumbled, her breathing in shorter gasps now. Footfalls somewhere in the distant darkness caused her to suck in her breath. The woman slid to her knees, crawled under a covered table, and held her breath, waiting for the slightest sound.
The Castle had closed down the ye
ar before as the primary entry point for immigrants from abroad. Above, the cloudy night held the evening almost moonless, and the woman could see nothing in the dark, but then came a brief parting of the clouds. As the moonlight peeked in, she had a moment of vision. Her breath exhaled in a whoosh. Through the small gap between the table cover and the floor, she saw the muddy gentleman’s boots not two feet away.
Interlude 19
Monday, March 13, 1893, 11:45 a.m.
Gravesend Bay, New York City
Ida Tarbell had agreed to ride in the carriage with Mr. Edison and W.K.L. Dickson. The bookkeeper, John F. Randolph, stayed behind to accompany Mr. Edison’s shipment to Chicago and would meet them there. Mr. Edison said the U.S. Army required him to make one stop before catching the New York Central evening passage to Chicago.
Edison put his face into a notebook upon entering the carriage and did not look up from reading once for the next half hour. Finally, Dickson cleared his throat carefully to get Ida’s attention. She looked to him.
“If you keep your voice low,” he said, barely above a whisper, “he can’t hear you. He’s practically stone deaf.”
Ida smiled and glanced sidelong at Edison, reading and seemingly oblivious.
“He can get that way for hours when he’s working,” Dickson said. “He’s more at home in his own mind, I think.”
Ida cocked her head and looked back at Dickson. “I’ve heard how he treats employees. Why do you work for him?”
W.K.L. Dickson smiled, slowly uncrossed his legs, right over left, and then settled them back down, left over right. He took a deep breath, and then spoke, “Working for Mr. Edison is the greatest honor in the world. When I turned nineteen in Paris, I wrote to Mr. Edison asking him for a job.” Dickson glanced at the inventor. “He wrote back and declined me a position.”
Ida’s face showed surprise.