Beside me Mrs. Whiddimore called, “Don’t stall out, Samuel, whatever you do!” He waved his handkerchief at her and then mopped his brow with it. Even here at the edge the heat of the scarce-cooled rock struck right up through a leather boot sole. Out where the upwelling lava was newer it must be unbearable. Oh my boy! Was this a way to die?
A distant yell and babble brought my heart up into my throat. Could they have found him? The sulfur stench of the volcano made me sick and dizzy. As the steam plow thumped and clattered back, Whiddimore waving triumphantly on top, I saw a log on the shovel blade in front, at the Sicilians’ feet. It was scorched black. Only one shirt cuff and the curly pate was recognizable. When I fell to my knees, wailing, the hot rock against my flesh was not so painful as my heart’s agony.
Oh, my boy!
Every block of ice in Sicily was brought to the consulate cellar; my grandson lies on a bier that an emperor would envy. But with the last wagon-load Whiddimore brought me more bad news from the local church. “We are Protestants, sir!” I cried. “This is an outrage!”
Whiddimore shook his head. “This is a profoundly Catholic island, Laurence. Even the Anglican expatriate cemetery cannot accommodate a suicide.”
At this last word I could not help flinching. “Now, Samuel.” Mrs. Whiddimore frowned at her husband’s plain speaking. “Mr. Laurence, we know of another solution, if you will consider it. The recent cruel War Between the States has brought only one benison to the grieving parent.”
“Yes, yes,” Whiddimore broke in. “That new alchemical art. They call it embalm-ment.”
When Whiddimore explained this downright Egyptian procedure I was appalled. “Chemicals? Into his very veins? How is this less a violation than reanimation? Or even soul-transfer?”
“Here? In Europe?” Whiddimore’s jaw dropped, and Mrs. Whiddimore’s eyes went so wide that I apologized immediately, pleading the disorder of grief. But when they left me to recover, I took time to reflect on my own words.
The good citizens of Concord do not know how our family made its fortune. Because I have kept my counsel, the assumption is that its foundation is tainted: slavery. Little do they know! A fortune founded on the vile Triangle trade would be sweet as the perfumes of Araby, compared to the facts. But now? Now that Laurie lies dead and cold, I will dare to call on my father’s old knowledge: the lore of the Poet King.
Old Sir Willoughby would have been the man for the job. He was last heard of in 1863 in Siam. But fortune was with me. Charles Fanshawe, his chief artificer, parted brass-rags with Willoughby over some political issue, and returned to Europe to work at a laboratory at the University in Heidelberg. And I must say, stimulated by my massive payments, he made a superb job of it! Purloining parts from Sir Willoughby’s secret workshops is merely a venal sin—I can easily settle accounts with W. upon his return—but the transfer of Theodore’s soul into the mechanical man is indeed a crime in Europe. I fear I have given Fanshawe a hold upon me.
But oh! When the metal eyelids fluttered for the first time, and Teddy himself looked out of the Murano-glass eyes! It was worth every cent, to have my boy back again!
Part 2
Christmas Day, 1868
Hotel d’Angleterre, Nice
Amy March was late in paying her duty to old Mr. Laurence because her dance card was so full, but at length she had to sit down to rest her feet. She was too well-mannered to remark upon how her old neighbor had changed. Perhaps travel really did bear harder upon the aged? His countenance, always reserved, now seemed ravaged and gray—a locked and shuttered house shattered by gunpowder and shot. He now used a gold-headed ebony cane to support his ageing step. But it was always safe to ask about his grandson. “So Teddy is still studying eidolonic mechanismics in Rome. Fancy! He has quite turned over a new leaf then, to be in his laboratory over Christmastide.”
“He has progressed amazingly,” Mr. Laurence said.
Mrs. Carrol, chaperoning the two girls, chipped in. “His delightful Christmas present has created quite a stir.”
“It is rather a present to us girls” Amy declared. “So sweet of Teddy! As soon as Flo’s waltz is done I mean to have another turn.”
The American hosts had taken the largest salle à manger at the hotel, the one hung all down one wall with mirrors. Candelabra set against each one doubled the light and made the room merry and bright. The automaton was impeccably turned out in a black swallowtail. Its steel face and hands glinted in the multiplied candlelight as it twirled and stepped. For her part, Florence Carrol in his arms looked pleased but surprised. A robot dancer of this dexterity was an incredible mechanismic leap.
“It is the best dance partner you could conceive of,” Amy said. “It never misses a step and never gets tired.”
“No conversation, though,” Mr. Laurence said.
Amy smiled. “Silence is less a flaw than you might imagine, when you consider the insipid chatter of the usual ballroom partner.”
“I am told that the vox mechanica is still beyond Theodore’s skill. Perhaps next semester.”
The waltz ended with a patter of polite applause. Florence approached with the mechanical dancer on her arm.
Amy said, “It even has a look of Teddy.”
“It does, does it not?” Mr. Laurence agreed. “Something in the way it holds its head.”
“Did Teddy give it a name?”
The automaton’s dark eyes were crafted of glass, unusually expressive. Mr. Laurence’s left hand was in the pocket of his evening coat as he spoke easily. “He left that to me. I named it Secundus.”
“Then shall we, Mr. Secundus?” She rose and held out a slender hand. With silent gallantry the mechanical man bowed over it. As it led her out onto the dance floor, Mr. Laurence glimpsed beyond the forming set a hotel bellboy ushering in a short stout figure. Mrs. Carrol and Florence were occupied with re-pinning an errant corsage. They did not look up as Mr. Laurence rose to his feet with the aid of his cane. He moved discreetly toward the terrace. Any conversation with Charles Fanshawe would go better out of doors.
Even at the end of December, the Riviera was clement. White and full, the moon swanned across the Mediterranean sky through a modest drapery of high cloud. Fanshawe stared soulfully up at it and took off his bowler hat. “Beautiful night, isn’t it, Mr. L?”
“What are you here for, Fanshawe? Could your business not wait until after Christmas?”
“Bless you, Mr. L. Creditors don’t take no holidays. The bills got to be paid.” He held out a sheet of paper closely written with numbers and sums.
Mr. Laurence made no move to take it. “Our accounts are settled, Fanshawe. Be off with you.”
“Sir Willoughby’s suppliers can’t be stiffed like that, Mr. L.,” Fanshawe returned. “They’ll go complaining to him, see, and then he’ll have to take it out of you. Better to get it over now, and then the boss don’t have to get stuck in.”
“And you think he will enter the lists for you? Besides, Willoughby died in Siam.” This last was a bow drawn at a venture. After all, Siam was so far away, anybody there might die without being heard of.
But Fanshawe hooted at the suggestion. “Guess you haven’t met him in a while, eh? We’re partners in crime, Mr. L. You can’t turn down a pal, not when he could peach on you to the French police. I know you’ve liquidated all your European holdings, but there’s word of a big house of yours, in Yankee country.”
Mr. Laurence did not care to mention that he had already set John Brooke, the family factotum, to mortgaging the mansion. Instead he strolled deeper into the shrubbery, out of view from the hotel windows. “Be off,” he repeated, “or it will be the worse for you.” He slid his left hand into his coat pocket.
“Come now, Mr. L,” Fanshawe said with reproach. “You can’t threaten the maker with his own creation. That’s a game for blood-and-thunder novels. So you ring for the automaton—the aetheric controller works a treat, don’t it? But I put him together.”
The tubby
little man watched smiling as Secundus came down the steps toward them. The moonlight silvered the machine’s metal so that it almost could have been the fairest of human skin. In the pale light the worked bronze could simply have been ruffled dark curls tumbling over the broad smooth forehead.
“You made him well,” Mr. Laurence said. “Stronger than you know. Secundus, if you would?”
With smooth speed the mechanical man seized Fanshawe by the checkered tweed sleeve. Fanshawe sighed. “Downright shame, really.” He used one booted toe to kick the side of Secundus’s knee. There was a small popping sound and suddenly the automaton toppled sideways. It fell heavily onto the thick turf, the metal hands not moving to break its fall. “Nothing to it, if you know how the joints are riveted.”
“I’ve always been old-fashioned,” Mr. Laurence replied. He gave the gold head of the ebony cane one twist, freeing six inches of steel blade, and in almost the same motion stabbed it to the hilt into Fanshawe’s back. Fanshawe fell to the grass in his turn, thrashing and choking out a horrible gurgling cry. Mr. Laurence felt certain that no one in the ballroom could hear it over the sound of the orchestra. He wiped the blade clean on Fanshawe’s tweed coat and clicked it back into the cane again before addressing the machine. “Come, boy. Sit up and let me see.”
Commanded, the automaton moved, rolling to sit up. Mr. Laurence clicked his tongue at the split knee of the dress trousers. “No more dancing for you tonight.” From his right pocket he produced a pocket knife with half a dozen tool attachments. Stiffly he lowered himself to kneel on the grass. It would be a simple job, to align the broken joint and then tighten the connections properly. As he began the automaton put a pleading hand over his. “No conversation for you,” Mr. Laurence responded. “It’s too dangerous in public. Allow me to guess your questions, and offer a reply.
“Do you recall when we first discussed this trip, that my original plan involved some business in London? Good. It would be pointless now, to hide from you that our family’s financial affairs are closely wound up with the estate of the allegedly late George Gordon, Lord Byron. I shall not confide the details of the connection to you now, but suffice it to say that when I needed a soul to be transferred into an automaton, the resources of both money and knowledge were to hand.”
Mr. Laurence’s attention was fixed on the tiny hex screw he was tightening in the steel kneecap, but he was aware of the fine fingers, sensitive and quick though made of metal, tensing under the pressure of unspoken questions. “No, my boy. This time I shall not fail. Never again will you be at risk, for I love you too well. Your father ran off into disaster, and you did the same. But now you will be safe forever—your soul securely housed in an everlasting metal body. A body that I control. I swore I would drag you back from the abyss, and I did.”
“But—but that’s slavery!”
Startled, Mr. Laurence looked up. “Miss Amy—how do you come here?”
“I was looking for my dance partner,” she said. Veiled in tulle and illusion, her white satin ball gown magnified her petite form the way the mist magnified the moon. She stared with horror into the metal face and the great glass eyes. “Teddy! Can it really be you in there? And who is this man? Has there been an accident?”
The automaton made not the slightest gesture. It sat on the grass, one knee drawn up, still as a statue. In heavy tones Mr. Laurence said, “My child, forgive an old man’s last folly. You have not heard—it is a dreadful secret—that poor Theodore killed himself last summer in Sicily.”
Amy gasped. “Oh, dear God! No, I did not know!”
Mr. Laurence rose stiffly, leaning on the cane. “He had received a final letter from Jo, and it overwhelmed his reason. In the pit of my despair, I had this automaton crafted, a metal substitute. That is why it is named Secundus. It is not truly ensouled. That is just a fiction I tell myself, a pretense to poultice this terrible grief. I beg you: do not tell of this to the folks at home. Let me break the tragic news to your mother, your sister, in person.”
“Teddy, poor Teddy! How horrible! But—but this automaton. His eyes—” Tears welled up in Amy’s own blue eyes and rolled down her pale cheeks. “They are so like!”
“I had them especially made that way.” Mr. Laurence’s voice quavered pathetically. “Brown glass from Murano in Italy—”
With a wheezing groan Fanshawe rolled to one side. In his hand was a single-shot pocket derringer. “You lying bugger,” he gasped.
The automaton moved almost too swift for sight, seizing Amy by the waist and pulling her backwards in a flurry of satin and petticoat. Mr. Laurence swung the cane to knock the derringer aside. In the same instant Fanshawe fired over the heads of both girl and mechanical. Mr. Lawrence swayed for a moment, a look of immense disdain creeping over his aristocratic features. Then he crumpled.
“Cunning git,” Fanshawe groaned, and said no more.
Fighting to take a decent breath against her tight corsetry, Amy sat up gaping like a fish. She was alone with an automaton and two fallen men! If there had been any other person present she would have been relieved to faint gracefully away. But without anyone else to bear a hand, she had no option but to cling to consciousness. With a grim effort she wallowed upright, irretrievably staining her white gloves on the grass and dragging the heavy skirts and crushed horsehair bustle. Years of charity visiting with Marmee now stood her in good stead. Her first responsibility must be the wounded.
Mr. Laurence’s white shirt-front was so blood-boltered that it was impossible to believe he yet lived. In the moonlight the wide pool of gore stained the grass black around him, squelching disgustingly under her white satin slippers as she stepped closer. Shuddering, she clutched her lace shawl tight around her shoulders and turned away to approach the other man. He lay on his side, also unmoving. She could not see his chest rise with breath. In the sickroom with little Beth she had learned how to take a pulse. Very gingerly, with one finger, she pressed the thick hairy wrist protruding below the checkered tweed sleeve. There was nothing.
Finally she turned to the automaton. It sat like a stork, one knee still drawn up for repair. How did you tell if a mechanical man was alive? Amy licked her lips, nerving herself to address it. “You saved my life,” she declared, tremblingly.
Then it did move. It looked away. Amy stepped around and bent to look into the metal face. “Teddy?”
Something in the glass eyes did not look mechanismic. She pressed on. “Teddy, is it you? Please! You can confide in me—your old playfellow, Amy.”
A long pause. Then, very slowly, the bronze pate glittered in the moonlight as the machine nodded. It held up a hand, and Amy helped it stagger to its feet. The knee joint wobbled but did not give way. Quickly she scooped up the ebony cane and put it into its hand so that it could support itself. With this aid it limped over to Mr. Laurence’s fallen form. From the left coat pocket it extracted a mechanical controller the size of a large cigar case, a miracle of burnished bronze and smooth steel bristling with brass levers and vernier wheels. The slim metal fingers slid over the controls. Slowly the steel lips parted, and a thin voice haltingly creaked, “Aetheric. Controller. Grandfather—he . . . turned. Off. The. Vox.”
“Teddy! It is you!” Amy wanted to shout with joy, but there was no time. The implications of his plight surged through her mind. “Teddy, we cannot stay. You know that it is still illegal in Europe, for souls to be transferred into machines. If you stay in France the gendarmes will, will—” Her imagination failed her. A smelting furnace? Forcible disassembly? Surely an ensouled mechanical’s fate here could not be but dire.
She could hear the gears click around in the automaton’s chest as the vox mechanical selected word cards. “My. Own. Grandfather. Made. Me. A Slave.”
Amy thought more rapidly than she had ever done in her life. “We must tell the authorities that Mr. Laurence perished being—yes, being robbed by this person lying here. Then we will go straight back to America. At home, Papa read Mr. Lincoln’s Emancipati
on Proclamation out loud to us. Our martyred President freed not only the Negroes, but mechano-Americans as well. If you will trust yourself to me, Teddy, I will declare you to be my property: a Christmas gift from your grandfather to—to Jo, back home. Doesn’t that sound convincing? And then, once we are back in Massachusetts, you will be safe—and free.”
“No.”
“No? Teddy, can you wish to stay here? What will they do to you? Are you—” A fresh terror seemed to grip Amy’s heart. Everyone knew that a dying man’s last words were truth, and so it must be that old Mr. Laurence had been lying to her—but how much? Could Laurie still be bent on self-destruction? Was he embracing disassembly and destruction?
He shook his head. “Dangerous. For you.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” In her relief Amy could have smacked him, as Jo had done when they were children. “Teddy, we are behind enemy lines. This is no time for gallantry! My own Papa, your tutor Brooke, our boys in blue—they fought to free all the slaves. We must not—I will not!—let them down by deserting you.”
She watched the metal countenance carefully. Perhaps with practice she could learn to read its thought, but now it was inscrutable. But then he moved. Gently he took up her hand and put the aetheric controller into it. “I am. Yours,” he said.
She clutched it, careful not to disturb the setting of the levers and silence him again. “Only until we are safe out of Europe, Teddy. I shall be your Harriet Tubman, guiding you underground to freedom.”
The face and mouth were forever immobile, but the brown glass eyes spoke volumes: admiration, acquiescence, and more. “Yours,” he repeated softly, and her heart knew the words had nothing to do with emancipation.
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