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

president smiled all over his homely
face, and bent to hear a word from an undersized Asiatic gentleman dressed in a
formal coat and tall hat—possibly the Siamese ambassador? Great God, they were
going to mount the beast and ride!
    The lieutenant was close enough now to see the assassination
attempt. As the mahout straightened up, he spun the ankus in his hands. The
hooked end was lifted high. And the curved iron-tipped spike came down hard,
right onto the silk stovepipe hat on Abraham Lincoln’s head. The president
dropped like a rock, and with a shout McAvers flung himself forward to seize
the mahout by his naked brown ankle. The assassin made to strike at McAvers
with the massive ankus, but others were there to knock the weapon aside and
throw the mahout to the planking. “The president!” McAvers cried. “What of Mr.
Lincoln?”
    But before anyone could reply there was a metallic creak.
Steam huffed white into the chilly air, and Airavata surged to its huge golden
feet, trumpeting like a dozen military bands. The tremendous brassy noise froze
everyone in their tracks. If the metal monster defended its master then McAvers
realized they were all doomed. And what if the machine was indeed booby-trapped
with an explosive? The controls must be—yes, in the ankus! He scrabbled for the
massive staff as it rolled, glittering, under the feet of the terrified
onlookers.
    Then there was a shrill cry. “Sam, hand me that staff!”
    “Oh, great God!” He gaped up past the gleaming golden flank.
Up on top in the gaudy howdah was a flurry of brown plaid skirts and the
flutter of a Shetland shawl.
    Mrs. Inglis clambered into the front-most seat and frowned
down over the sapphire-studded rail at the green satin head-cloth on the
massive head below. “I don’t see reins, or levers, or handles,” she called. “Oh!”
    Airavata turned. Could real elephants gallop? The
mechanismic beast had no turn for speed, but its tree-trunk legs were
inexorable as golden pistons. It strode down the wharf as wailing bystanders
scrambled out of the way. Mrs. Inglis clung to the howdah rail, the pearl
fringe jerking above her brown bonnet. Barrels were smashed, bales of cotton
went flying, and a loading crane toppled over with a tremendous splash into the
icy water. McAvers ran after and slid his gloved fingers over the gaudy jeweled
grip of the ankus. There must be controls here somewhere—how could he recognize
them? There were curly Siamese letters in the gold, only just recognizable as
writing—would the Siamese ambassador read them, or was he too in on the
assassination plot?
    But Mrs. Inglis was doing something. Tying herself to the
howdah rail? No, by God—she was unfurling her shawl. It was a substantial
square nearly five feet on a side, and with a toss she caught its crocheted
fabric onto one of the bits of elaborate golden flower filigree encrusting the
end of an ivory tusk. Its eye on that side suddenly hooded, Airavata shook its
massive head in the manner of a horse troubled by a fly. Its brazen bellow of
annoyance made McAvers’s blood run with ice. The great articulated metal trunk
snaked up to swat the obstruction away, and Mrs. Inglis ducked down between the
silk-cushioned seats.
    But even a mechanical elephant needs two eyes to steer
straight. In its distraction the creature veered over the edge of the wharf and
onto the shingle. The soul of the tropical elephant embodied within must not
realize that the ice crusted over the shallows was not substantial enough to
bear any weight. Airavata strode right out over the gray winter-weary ice, and
broke through. It screamed with a shredding sound of metal on metal, dragging
first one leg free and then another, before collapsing half onto its side in a
wallow of trampled reeds and mire.
    Heedless of his riding boots McAvers waded into the icy
muck. Here in the slow-moving shallows the Potomac stank with effluvia and
dumped chamber pots. “Quickly, ma’am! No, curse it, leave the