In his tent Jules de Chingé tore his attention away from his codex puncher 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. Interesting, not beautiful.
“Looks quite a bit like you, sir,” the reporting sergeant remarked. A brutish fellow de Chingé 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.” De Chingé hid his embarrassment 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. Fortunately his mechanical body could not blush.
The sergeant withdrew, sullen and disrespectful, without saluting. De Chingé 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.”
De Chingé 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?” With a start 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,” De Chingé ordered when the prisoner continued his hunched over posture and concentrated study of the canvas floor. De Chingé needed the layer of heavy flooring to protect his delicate instruments from as much dust and moisture as possible.
Then the man looked up.
De Chingé gasped and recoiled. He could be looking into a mirror—except for the bruises and filth. Instinctively De Chingé 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?” De Chingé asked, amazed.
“Captain Thaddeus Hyatt-Forsythe.” The voice was devoid of emotion. But his eyes studied De Chingé minutely.
“The Richmond Hyatt-Forsythes,” De Chingé 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. And yet the insolence of the enlisted men, and Lieutenant Markham told him that they suspected his true nature.
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 De Chingé’s 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 de Chingé 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 allowed him to monitor overheating and the build-up of black powder residue that could impair its performance.
De Chingé created the impossible. As soon as the impossible 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 Nègre slaves they owned. Pemberton had promised that his genius would put him above slavery. But all men are mortal—except de Chingé. Who would remember the promises of a dead man?
Non! They would not dare. He was Jules de Chingé. They must honor his genius.
General Pemberton had been born a Yankee. De Chingé 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?
The captive captain nodded slowly, staring until his eyes—the same color as de Chingé’s own—seemed to start from his head. His action returned De Chingé’ 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.
De Chingé dared not speak. His soul panicked but he made an effort to speak evenly and mimic Captain Thaddeus’s accent. “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,” de Chingé insisted.
Captain Thaddeus looked up sharply.
De Chingé might have blushed at his reversion to his normal speech pattern, had he still had the power to blush.
“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.” De Chingé requested politely and held out his hand for them.
Markham dropped them across his wrist then wiped his hand on his trousers as if the goggles had tainted him in some way.
De Chingé 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 thick 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 de
tect them. The tent space 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. The green? “What is this?”
Captain Thaddeus looked at the sagging canvas roof, saying nothing.
“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.
De Chingé 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.” The captain 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.
De Chingé 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 De Chingé 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.
“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.” De Chingé 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 De Chingé’ 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 skin with additional acid.
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 fists 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. “Why aren’t you dead, Nate?” Tad finally asked.
“I . . . I have hurt the way you do.” He ignored the question. Tad couldn’t.
“Did you hurt the way I do now that 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 asked again.
“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.
“We have our geniuses. You have yours. Only, I’m beginning to think maybe the Rebs only have one. If anything happens to you they fall way behind in weapons development,” Tad returned. A theory niggled in the back of his mind. One that made sense and yet erased all hope that his brother truly did live.
The colonel tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in a gesture very reminiscent of Nate. Nate had never asked a lot of questions, mostly because he knew he wouldn’t understand the answers and that frustrated him to the point of rage.
“That still doesn’t answer my question. If you are indeed my brother, why aren’t you dead? If you aren’t truly my brother transformed, who are you?”
Tad blew the steam from the top of his coffee, contemplating how it swirled and drifted toward the tent flaps. Hot seeking cold. A balance.
Something was very out of balance here. He took a sip of coffee to help him find the missing pieces.
This second cup of coffee felt just as good as the first. He could sip it more slowly, working his thoughts around the brew as it infused his system with warmth and life and small relief of his headache. He could think around the pain now.
“Do you know if General Grant has hired someone called The German?” the colonel asked.
“I am not privy to that information.” Tad had heard about The German at The Point during a class on weapons deployment. The elusive military designer had written a very good treatise on matching the weapon to the terrain and troop placements.
He’d also heard about The Fre
nchman from New Orleans who made guns and cannons impossibly more powerful and more accurate than logic allowed. Rumor through the army’s upper echelons said The Frenchman had turned down many offers from President Lincoln because he was dying of consumption.
Another puzzle piece dropped into place.
“Ah, well, you can at least tell me what you learned of my weapon.” The colonel nursed his own cup of coffee, not bothering to blow the steam across the cup so it wouldn’t burn his mouth. Another clue. An unsettling one.
“You aren’t Nate,” Tad said flatly. Not entirely anyway.
“That is neither here nor there. I need to know how much information you gathered with your ghost goggles and your balloon that can tack against the wind. I have already drawn diagrams of both and sent instructions to Richmond for developing our own versions.”
“Nate could draw exquisite pictures of birds and bugs and trees and flowers, almost lifelike, with only bits of charcoal on a piece of bark. Part of his observational skill. He noted details, but couldn’t understand how to use them. Only draw them. He couldn’t diagram anything mechanical. He understood how birds move their wings to fly. He couldn’t translate that to balloon aerolons. He saw ghosts all the time, but did not understand the chemistry of putrefying flesh.”
The colonel stared above Tad’s head, an unreadable blank, like an empty page in a book.
“Nate spoke basic English with a limited vocabulary. He had no need or interest in developing another language or accent. He learned very slowly and incompletely. Simple machines with an automatic language codex inserted could speak better than my younger brother.”
“What is your point, Captain Thaddeus Hyatt-Forsythe? This tells me nothing about what you observed.” Was that a crack in the colonel’s composure? His hand clenched and unclenched, but not in the smooth motion of muscles and bones working together. This was more like precisely measured shifts with a tiny pause between.
“I remember once when we were children. I came down with whooping cough. Nate didn’t. He tried imitating my cough in order to take it away from me.”
Clockwork Souls Page 14