De Chingé returned to his ordering and reordering the gold codex cards he’d designed for his creation. He’d reused the codices that came with his new body, only modifying them slightly for their new purpose. Lovelace and Babbage would not sell an automaton without the coded instructions for Christian behavior. They made the best machines with the most accurate and complex operating instructions built in. The late Lady Ada Lovelace did not want the transference of souls into her automata. With the codex, her machines did not need a soul. Indeed, in her last years she’d fought for making such transference illegal throughout Europe. The United States and the Confederate States had other problems and made no decision on the issue. De Chingé had a better use for the intricately punched cards. His mind embedded in the automaton worked better than artificial intelligence. With the cards, he had a gun that would soon think for itself and carry its burden of destruction. By then de Chingé would have moved on to the next enticing project, bending his genius to a new puzzle.
<<>>
Tad jumped clear of the balloon six feet above ground and rolled to his feet. Two seconds later the basket thunked to the ground beside him. The balloon dragged it a few feet before completing its collapse.
“Good bye, Nichols. You served well and died in combat. I’ll inform your family of your regretful death, myself.” Saddened, he bowed his head in brief prayer.
With his goggles in place he ducked and ran a zigzag course from bush to tree across the meadow. The guns of Vicksburg above the bluffs seemed to point directly at him the entire time.
Where to go? He had to return to headquarters to the northwest of the bluffs and across that bloody big river. He dropped the map lens over his goggles. Immediately a sketchy drawing of landmarks jumped into view, lighted by that odd green glow from the goggle gel. A long chain of hash marks indicated a railroad just north of his position.
Exposed. But in the remaining hours of darkness he had a chance to get to the bridge. He had a few rations in his kit in case dawn caught him still behind enemy lines and he had to take refuge in a ditch.
As a precaution he ripped the two pages of drawings and calculations from his notebook, folded them small and stuffed them into his drawers, the last place captors would look for contraband.
He dashed to the next shelter revealed by his goggles, a line of low shrubs, bordering one of the numerous creeks that drained into the Big Muddy.
Just as he reached the first leafy willow branches Tad heard an ominous rustle. The gentle breeze that had carried the balloon was above them. Down here at ground level the air was still.
Tad dug in his heels, slowing his head-long plunge into the bushes. Something tripped him, a root, a rock, a trap, something. He flailed for balance.
A rifle butt caught him in the gut. Fierce pain doubled him over and robbed him of breath. He gagged and coughed, all his concentration centered on forcing his lungs to break free of paralysis and work again. His vision narrowed worse than four degrees of magnification on the goggles.
“Straighten up, you damned Yankee spy,” a tenor voice drawled. Deep South, not the soft lilt of Virginia, or the western states’ twang.
“I—cough—am in uniform. You can’t arrest me as a spy,” Tad choked out, coughing again as his words faded to a whisper. Unconsciously his tone drifted back to the gentle accent of northern Virginia rather than the clipped affectation to help him blend in with his own troops.
“Traitor,” a Reb snarled. His accent sounded identical to Tad’s. He emphasized their common origin and opposite affiliation with a resounding slam of the weapon against the back of Tad’s head.
He saw stars as the crushing blow sent knife-sharp pain over the top of his head to his eyes and down his spine. His knees buckled as darkness wiped out all other sensation.
<<>>
Jules de Chingé tore his attention away from his codex puncher in his tent to listen to the report of the Union captain taken prisoner. The dead sergeant had been taken away to wherever the army took dead bodies. He left it to the experts to deal with the matter.
The young captain, however, presented an interesting problem.
“Looks quite a bit like you, sir,” the reporting sergeant remarked. A brutish fellow Jules had dealt with before. He didn’t want to remember the man’s name. When given orders to keep a prisoner alive he frequently returned the solider bruised and sometimes broken. Useless for interrogation.
“Where is Lieutenant Markham?” Jules asked. “I do not deal with subordinates.”
“That’s as may be, sir.” The last word came out on a sneer. “Seems like our Union Captain sounds like a traitor, nice civilized drawl wearing a blue uniform. Not a trace of your Frenchified accent. Not a trace. Seems strange to hear proper words coming out of a face and mouth that could be yours. If he was wearing a proper uniform that is. That got me to wondering.”
“Yours is not the place to ‘wonder,’ Sergeant, or you will find yourself minus a stripe or two. Now send Lieutenant Markham to me at once. With the prisoner. I have the need to interrogate him.” Jules hid his embarrassed flush at having lapsed into his own accent colored by his French origins. He’d become distracted, comparing the punch holes in the gold card with the mathematical formula on a page of diagrams and calculations.
The sergeant withdrew, sullen and disrespectful, without saluting. Jules ignored him. He’d find a way to put the man in his place. Perhaps a demotion was in his future.
He knew that time passed, because he made progress in aligning the codices. Yet he was unaware of how much time. Eventually a man’s voice interrupted his concentration. “Lieutenant Markham reporting as ordered, sir.”
Jules swung around to find the short, square man in his early twenties standing stiffly at attention, hand locked in salute, as if turned to stone.
“Do you have the prisoner, Lieutenant?” He vaguely remembered to return the salute so Markham could drop his.
“Yes, sir.”
“I do not see him. Bring him in. I have questions for him.”
“Excuse me, sir, but your authority reaches only as far as designing and protecting the weapon. The interrogation of prisoners belongs to General Pemberton….” The lieutenant narrowed his eyes. “Nor do you have the authority to discipline my enlisted men.
“The prisoner was observing my gun. I need to know how much he knows, so that I can make modifications above and beyond what he has reported to General Grant.”
Markham opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. “Very well, sir.” He dropped his salute, did an abrupt about face, and retreated as far as the tent flap. He spoke softly to someone.
A moment later a disheveled figure stumbled in. His torn blue uniform, the bruises on his jaw beneath a short brown beard, a split lip, and filthy hair bespoke rough treatment at the hands of the sergeant. Oh, how he wished he could treat that sergeant like the cur he was.
“Stand up and face me,” Jules ordered when the prisoner continued his hunched over posture and concentrated study of the canvas floor. Jules needed the layer of heavy flooring to protect his delicate instruments from as much dust and moisture as possible. He wanted the farmhouse a league inland from the river. But he needed proximity to his invention which was much too large to contain within a building or transport overland to its battle location.
Then the man looked up.
Jules gasped and recoiled. He could be looking into a mirror—except for the bruises and filth. Instinctively Jules ran his hand through his own beard, the same shade of dark golden brown as his opposite. The prisoner mimicked his action.
“Who are you?” Jules asked, amazed.
“Captain Thaddeus Hyatt-Forsythe,” he said evenly, devoid of emotion. But his eyes studied Jules intimately.
“The Richmond Hyatt-Forsythes,” Jules echoed. He’d been told some history of his new body image. The Confederates had chosen to keep his true identity, and therefore his likeness, a secret. No one must know that he was an automaton.
If the Yankees learned that the genius of Jules de Chingé directed the defenses of Vicksburg, they’d have to respond with new tactics and weaponry. Possibly employing Jules’ greatest rival known only as “The German,” a man who lived in secret isolation and sent underlings to build new weapons according to his designs, never showing his face in public, or to clients.
For over a decade Jules had heard rumors of experiments with electricity, light rays, Greek fire, and a host of other impossible forms of devastation.
Impossible weapons. Yet . . . the monster cannon he had built was an impossible weapon. He’d included a full array of gold codex cards to perfect its aim, trajectory, and recoil. Additional coding allow him to monitor overheating and the build-up of black powder residue that could impair its performance.
Jules created the impossible. But as soon as it became possible, he grew bored and moved on to the next puzzle.
If the men in the Confederate army discovered that his true identity was hosted in an automatic body, then they might very well forget his rank and his talents, regarding him as less human than the Negrèd slaves they owned. If these subordinates suspected the truth, might they refuse to carry out his orders? Might they strip him of rank and privilege and confine him in slave quarters?
Non! They would not dare. General Pemberton had promised him protection.
General Pemberton had been born a Yankee. Jules heard frequent rumors that the West-Point-educated man could not be trusted. If the Confederate position and chance of victory weakened, would Pemberton return to his roots and throw himself on the mercy of General Grant?
Captain Thaddeus nodded mutely, still taken aback. His action returned Jules’ attention to the current situation, where he must work to protect himself and his precious weapon.
“They told me, and our mother that you were dead, Nate.”
“A mistake.”
“A mistake that cost our mother many tears and much heartache. You couldn’t be bothered to notify her of the erroneous report of your death and dismemberment? But then you never did have the forethought and courtesy to think of another’s hurt.” Captain Thaddeus almost spat the last words.
Jules dared not speak.
Then with considerable effort to mimic the accent Captain Thaddeus had used, he tried for an even tone while his soul panicked. “What do you know of our troop placement and ability to withstand a siege?”
Captain Thaddeus shrugged, then grimaced, as the movement twisted his shoulder. How badly had the sergeant hurt him?
“You observed us for quite some time before I detected your presence,” Jules insisted.
Captain Thaddeus looked up sharply.
Jules might have blushed at his reversion to his normal speech pattern, had he still had the power to blush. Fortunately the automatic body did not allow such primitive responses.
“He was wearing these, sir,” Lieutenant Markham said, holding up a pair of thick-framed goggles with multiple lenses.
“If you please, Lieutenant, I would like to examine that device more closely.” Jules requested politely and held out his hand for them.
Markham dropped them across his wrist then wiped his hand on his trousers as if they were tainted in some way.
Jules picked up the device by the head strap (an innocuous leather belt, it seemed) with two fingers, cautious of hidden poisonous needles or small explosives. He’d written a paper in his youth about the possibility of such traps to safeguard one’s possessions against theft.
He blinked and increased the magnification of his mechanical eyes and noted that the thickness brass frame only encircled the primary lens frame. He held up the goggles to peer through them without allowing them to touch his face—those pesky traps might still exist even though he could not detect them. The room took on a green cast, heat signatures intensified. He allowed himself a half smile. Ah, the Yankees had used some of the improvements in his own eyes to design the goggles.
But the green?
“What is this?”
Captain Thaddeus looked at the sagging canvas roof.
“Corpse effluvium,” Markham spat and crossed himself, an instinctive ward against evil.
“That is not a term I have heard used before.”
“Ectomorphic gel,” Markham said quietly. He licked his lips and pursed his mouth as if tasting something nasty.
Jules clicked through memories. Yes, sometimes a rotting corpse glowed green in the dark. So did swamp gas.
He could not remember hearing of a practical use for this substance.
“What does it do?” he asked.
Markham turned away as if unwilling to discuss it further.
“Captain Thaddeus Hyatt-Forsythe?”
“You know my name, my unit, and my loyalty to the United States of America. I need provide you with no other information.” He tried to assume a stiff pose at attention. It lasted about five seconds before pain made him curl forward, protecting his belly.
Ah, yes, the sergeant had been most thorough.
Jules turned right and left, still holding up the goggles. Not until Markham pushed back the tent flap and breathed deeply (probably to clear himself of the corpse effluvium) did Jules note that the goggles pushed back the darkness outside and revealed to him substantially more detail than his own eyes could, good as they were.
“Ah, yes, a ghost has no need of light to see in the darkness of night. This effluvium grants a similar, but lesser power, to the user.”
Again Captain Thaddeus shrugged. He looked a good deal paler than he had a few moments ago when he first entered the tent.
“Take this man away. Give him a place to sleep and something to eat, but guard him well. The first duty of a prisoner is to escape. Do not allow him to do so. Do you understand me, Markham?”
“Yes, sir.” He snapped a salute and grabbed the captain’s arm ungently.
“That does not answer the question of who you are,” the Union officer said. “You may have my brother’s face and form, but you do not have his voice, or his memories, or his barely rudimentary intelligence. Who are you? I have a right to know.”
“No, you do not have any rights, Captain Hyatt-Forsythe. You are a prisoner of war.” Jules shivered inwardly. He remembered assuming that same hunched over posture when a particularly violent coughing spasm had broken one of his ribs.
“Even a slave has some rights. I am not a slave . . .”
Markham gave him an elbow to his ribs. The inquisitive Captain collapsed forward, knees buckling as he vomited on Jules’ boots.
<<>>
Tad drew the blankets of his rough bedroll closer around his shoulders. The early April dawn came quickly with a round of chill showers. The bare ground beneath his blankets absorbed the cold and shared it willingly with Tad’s body.
Every muscle and joint ached, from his toes to his hair roots. His eyes and his gut hurt the most. Shivering made it worse. He couldn’t help it. He was just so damn cold, through and through.
He listened to the sounds of men rising for the day. A yawn here, a belch there, the relieved sigh as another scratched. His own body smelled rank, worse than all the others. Something one got used to when living rough. He doubted any of them had had a proper bath in six months.
His injuries must have tainted his sweat with additional acid or something.
Life for these men didn’t vary much from his own troops. He wondered if they’d treat him any better or worse than prisoners of war were treated on the western river bank.
A change in the light through his closed eyelids alerted him to the presence of another. He didn’t care enough to open his eyes and find out who had come to interrogate him. The sergeant who took delight in inflicting pain with his fist couldn’t hurt him any worse.
“I have brought you hot coffee. It will help ward off the chills.” The faint French lilt in the voice told him he would have to face his brother’s ghost once again.
That might be a worse pain than another blow to his gut or
his head.
Tad decided to accept the offer. The man sounded genuinely kind. At the moment. He rolled to his side and drew his knees up in preparation of levering himself upward, in short stages with long breathing spells between each movement.
“Please, allow me to assist you.” Nate’s strong arm slid around Tad’s waist and hoisted him to sit on his bedroll. A familiar arm. And yet much stronger than Nate’s had been. Once Tad had regained regular breathing, Nate handed him the tin cup. Instantly warmth infused his hand. He wrapped the other around the cup as well. The chill abated a bit all the way to his elbows. Two sips of the thick black brew laced heavily with chicory snapped his brain awake and warmed him down to his belly.
“Thank you,” he said when his teeth stopped chattering.
“I . . .I have hurt the way you do.”
“Was it the time you fell from the apple tree and had the wind knocked out of you? I think you were nine and I was ten.” Tad grimaced remembering the anxious moments until Nate breathed again. Awful moments full of guilt and panic.
They had been so close, not even a year between them in age, but Tad had always been the brighter of the two, much older in learning and common sense. Taking care of Nate had been his responsibility. He’d been serving the army as a shavetail lieutenant at Harper’s Ferry when neighbors convinced Nate to join up with the Rebel cause. When Tad had heard of his brother’s death, the guilt returned.
Guilt that he hadn’t been able to protect his brother. Deeper guilt that he was more than a bit relieved that responsibility for Nate had passed from his hands to God’s.
“Why aren’t you dead, Nate?” Tad finally asked.
“A good question.”
“So stop stalling and answer it.” The coffee was almost gone and he needed more. He held the cup up to the Confederate Colonel, who was and wasn’t Nate.
The colonel took it gratefully and left the tent for a moment. He returned with two steaming cups and a bland face before Tad could fall asleep again.
“The balloon you observed our positions from is quite an innovation. I had no idea the Union had progressed so far in developing new technology in aerodynamics,” the rebel colonel remarked.
Steampunk Voyages Page 2