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

shawl!”
    A huge hissing and gouts of steam showed that water was
encroaching upon vital systems in the machinery. Mrs. Inglis clambered
precariously down over the tumbled scarlet satin cushions. “Sam, I can swim,
you know!”
    But after the incident of shinning down a rope McAvers was
having none of it. “Cling to my back—may I invite you to grip my neck tightly?
No, not with your hands! That’s the way of it, hug my head . . .”
In fact her pagoda sleeves and loose mantelet hampered him considerably, and
her long skirts quickly became soaked and dragged at his legs. Their combined
weight sank his feet into the mud so that icy water poured over the tops of his
boots. With a grim effort he waded toward shore, two yards, three—
    The explosion was so near and so loud that he almost could
not perceive it. It was like a gigantic hand, swatting him. He was flying
through the air, Mrs. Inglis still clinging to his back. He slammed flat as a
pancake into a wall.
    Only some while later did he realize that the wall had been
made of yielding cotton bales, and not brick. He was alive! He sat up. His nose
was bleeding, his ears rang worse than they had after Bull Run. The mass of his
revolver had left an indentation on his thigh that was going to be the bruise
of the century. A tremendously tall lean figure all in black loomed over him,
so tall that he had to crick his neck. For a moment in his befuddlement he
thought it was an undertaker. But then he realized—“Mr. President,” he croaked.
“You’re alive!”
    “Thanks to you, lieutenant—may I know your name, and that of
the lady?”
    Mrs. Inglis stepped in. “This is Samuel James McAvers, sir.
Of the 113 th New York Volunteer Infantry. And I am Lucinda Inglis,
wife of Col. Jeremiah Inglis. He was at Vicksburg and is currently stationed at
Cape Fear.” She was soaking wet and disheveled, her bonnet crumpled and her
hair coming down in a snarl of brown braids at the back, but she was not
discomposed in the least. “May I confide to you, Mr. President, how all this
came about?”
    “If the President is injured, ma’am, he needs a doctor’s
attention immediately.”
    “Not in the least, Lt. McAvers,” Mr. Lincoln said. “My tall
hat broke the blow.” He was bareheaded, but now held out his tall stovepipe hat
for them to see. The crown was punctured by the ankus spike, and the entire top
half crushed down by the blow. But within the crumpled cylinder of silk plush
McAvers saw flat black strips gummed to the sides. “Mrs. Lincoln has instructed
Davis, my hatter, to reinforce all my hats with strips of gutta-percha, for
fear of attack. The spike did not even crease my hair. How delighted she will
be, to hear that her foresight has paid off so nobly. And you, Mrs. Inglis,
have the valor of a soldier’s wife. Tell me all, if you would.”
    Mrs. Inglis poured out her story, cousin Anna in Siam, the
crochet patterns, all the womanish flapdoodle. McAvers levered himself
squelching to his feet and groaned. She was visibly quite unhurt, lively as a
cricket. It seemed very unfair that he was the one with the nosebleed and the
pounding headache and what might be a cracked rib. It was going to be the
devil, to mount his horse again. And his new forage cap was gone forever, blown
halfway to Maryland. One of the president’s bodyguards had a flask, and McAvers
felt better for a gulp of cheap whiskey. He wondered if there was any hope of a
meal. It was too late for breakfast, but what about luncheon?
    The president heard Mrs. Inglis’s tale in patient and grave
silence. “I shall discuss the matter with the Siamese ambassador, but I suspect
that this is not an act of war. The Poet King’s devotees have simply used the
king’s gift as a vehicle for their own ends. There is but one point that you
may clarify for me, lieutenant. Your gallantry to Mrs. Inglis has been
remarkable. Are you perhaps . . . kin?”
    When McAvers realized that the president suspected he