Free Clockwork Souls by Phyllis Irene Radford, Brenda W. Clough

past her
and out into the open.
    “Sam! You wait for me!” she cried, but he ignored her. Just
before him was the wharf. At the far end the Pioneer Mill building towered up
in its many brick stories, and the great vessels were moored at the quays, both
steamers and sailing ships. Bales of cotton were stacked against the warehouse
walls, and barrels of goods waited in ranks for shipment. He could see
immediately where the presentation must be taking place—where a crowd of swells
in top hats waited at the largest pier. The stiff wind coming up from
downstream cut through his blue coat as he ran full tilt. There was not an
instant to waste!
    He came up to the crowd just as a great shout of wonder went
up. The sight was so astonishing he stopped in his tracks. A great gold serpent
seemed to writhe high above the deck of the Tripolitania, catching the rays of the morning sun. It was not flesh the color of gold,
but the real metal. Then a mighty head hove into view, with magnificent
flapping ears articulated of strips of gold. Huge curving tusks of genuine
ivory were longer than a man and capped at the ends with gold filigree wrought
into wreaths of flowers. The eyes were dark glass lenses surrounded by rubies
and brilliants, and the gold-fringed and tasseled head-cloth was of green satin
embroidered in a thousand vivid hues. With another lurch and a puff of steam
from the chimney at the back the entire mechanism clambered out into the weak wintry
sunshine. The jeweled howdah on its back flashed in the light, so inexpressibly
gaudy it made everyone gasp. Surely those could not be sapphires the size of a
fist, capping the handrails? Pearls, dangling in a fringe from the canopy? The
thing must be worth a ransom for fifty kings.
    Suddenly McAvers saw what was happening. The great
mechanismic beast was treading ponderously down the gangway, setting each
tree-trunk leg down with exquisite care. And standing on land was the welcoming
crowd in frock coats and tall hats. Far the tallest among them was a familiar
lean figure, with his dark chinstrap beard—Abraham Lincoln, the president
himself. “Let me through!” McAvers cried. “I am on an errand of life and death!”
    He shoved himself between the broad backs blocking the way. “Hey,
watch yourself!” “You have some nerve, sir!” But ignoring all complaint and
obstruction he thrust himself forward with frantic speed. If only Mrs. Inglis
was wrong! But he did not dare to risk it. Anything was possible in the presence
of a wonder like this.
    At last the great golden creature was ashore. Airavata
swiveled, trumpeting with a brassy blare that made the entire town ring. The
noise echoed eerily back across the river from the leafless forests on the
Maryland side. Then the machine beast turned to salute the dignitaries with a
flourish of its ivory tusks. The great glittering golden trunk, three yards
long, writhed in the air and reached to lovingly encircle the mahout who sat on
the embossed golden nape. Well here at least was a small proof of Mrs. Inglis
and her cousin Anna’s veracity. When he was set down on the planking it could
be seen that the lean little brown fellow was indeed wearing nothing but a
piece of unseamed turquoise Oriental silk hitched around his middle. In
February, in Virginia? He must be freezing. The mahout clutched an ankus nearly
as long as his torso, impossibly bejeweled with sapphires, rubies and diamonds
in a crazily opulent salute to the Stars and Stripes. The mahout prostrated
himself on the dirty boards before the president, a shocking abasement for a
fellow human being—even a black slave would not grovel like that.
    And behind him mighty Airavata bowed down as well. First one
leg bent in front, and then the next. Another puff of steam, and then the back
end sank majestically down as the mechanical beast couched itself down on the
planking. The mahout leaped to his bare feet and bowed deeply, holding the
ankus out flat in both brown hands. The