The official seal at the top of the letter was familiar as was the bold, flowing script and confident signature. He had received a number of short letters from the author of the one he now held, but none so brief. Throughout the war, assignments had come directly from the great man, but more often from a Department secretary or agent. But there was always a bit more detail of what was being asked. This one was different.
Thomas, I need your help again.
Looking up at the courier that delivered the strange letter,
he asked, “What is this about?”
The blue uniformed soldier said, “I do not know, Mr. Klay.
All I was instructed to do was to deliver this note and deliver you to him
right away.”
Folding the paper, he stuck it into his top pocket. “When do we
leave?’
“Sir, we are to leave immediately after you pack a few
tools, instruments and clothes. I am told it is quite urgent. I am also to
advise you that your workshop hasn’t been disturbed since you left last year.”
Thomas Jefferson Klay nodded in understanding. Each previous
request, though simple and direct in tone, had contained welcomed personal
asides or greetings. This one was fraught with urgency that belied its
briefness. Thomas grabbed his bag, always ready for such an event and followed
the soldier to the waiting puffer parked in front of his Falls Church, Virginia
farm.
Climbing in, he reread the note, placing his fingers upon
the signature as if to discern what was troubling the great man by touch alone.
Thomas, I need your help again.
Abraham Lincoln
As the steam carriage rumbled past green-budded trees and
over rough cobblestones leading towards the federal district, Thomas reflected
on the months and years that brought him to know and appreciate the President.
The grandson of a freed slave and son of a Swiss immigrant, Thomas’
propensity and inventiveness with things mechanical had garnered much attention
from both sides of the Civil War. Confederate soldiers noticed the Klay family
farm’s rich green fields and abundance that his father, Noah, could produce
despite a shortage of labor. While other nearby farms lay fallow or provided
only enough sustenance for a farmer’s family, theirs prospered providing a
variety of crops and livestock enough to share with their neighbors and even
sell to local markets.
Noah Klay, a skilled watchmaker and inquisitive tinkerer,
solved the problem of the lack of field hands with machines. Self-propelled clanking
plows fitted with gleaming tubes that held seed or fertilizers in the spring
would be replaced with delicate articulated metallic hands to pick beans, shave
tobacco stalks or even pluck apples from swaying branches in the fall made the
need for human backs and hands moot. As far as anyone knew, no farm existed
with such complex and clever devices.
As wondrous as these machines were to behold, many people
had almost grown accustomed to seeing self-propelled devices. In this time,
carriages ran as trains without tracks, puffing smoke and steam as they moved
across the land. Hot air and
hydrogen-filled balloons swept across skies. Telegraphic pictures could be sent
in mere seconds across thousands of miles. Indeed, this was a modern age.
But it was the Union Army that took notice of something very
special about the Klay farm. They noticed that farm hands did indeed work the
land, but these laborers were not men. Working together, Noah Klay and his son,
Thomas had created mechanical brass men that walked on two sturdy legs,
employed up to three stout, powerful arms to pull entire trees from the ground,
carry bales of hay to waiting carts and a myriad other chores.
Their movements were carefully calculated, each action
controlled by the placement of pins on a series of clockwork rotating cylinders
that plucked tiny levers in a determined sequence. Like a music box, the
mechanical laborer’s movements could be orchestrated to carry out a variety of
chores. Thomas’ mother, Elizabeth, had been delighted when Noah created a
cylinder that directed the laborers to dance a short jig every day at noon for her
benefit. It was Elizabeth who called them, “Music Men” and the name stuck to
this day.
A cold, early March breeze blew into the puffer carriage as
it crossed the Potomac, breaking Thomas’ reverie. Those early days in the war,
now more than four years ago, had brought changes into his life that no one
could have anticipated or God forbid, desired.
Union generals quickly understood that the Music Men,
sometimes referred to as “mumen,” “mute men” or even “mum,” could replace not
only farm hands but soldiers as well. Capitalizing on the northern states
reserves of metal ores, factories, coal and kerosene, entire battalions of
fearless and bloodless fighting metal soldiers could be built to lay waste the
human soldiers in the south. As the war drew to a close, Music Men became ever
increasing in size and numbers.
In a narrative that Thomas rarely revisited, the war had
also brought the death of his father and beloved mother. Confederate forces
sought to end the progress of Noah’s contribution to the northern war efforts
many times by sending unsuccessful raiding parties to Falls Church with the
intention of capturing the erstwhile scientist-watchmaker-farmer. Just two
years ago near Thomas’ nineteenth birthday, a small band of specialized, yellow-hooded
raiders had been sent with the order to change their tactics from “capture” to
“kill.” With this, they were successful even more than they would ever
understand.
There was much ado when Noah married Elizabeth, the daughter
of a freeman. Perhaps in Europe, the sight of a handsome young man arm in arm
with an articulate, stunning chocolate skinned woman would have only caused a
few tongues to wag. But in America, where the country was divided over the
question of slaves, the idea that a black woman, regardless of her beauty and
intellect, could legally marry a white man was even controversial in the
“forward thinking” north. Noah would often tell his young son that once he
heard her speak as they passed in a train station in New York and he set eyes
upon hers, there was nothing else for him to do but seek a way to make a life
with her.
It was known by only a very few that much of the success of
the farm, as well as the design and nuances of Noah’s inventions were a result
of Elizabeth’s imaginative approach to both endeavors. Without Elizabeth, the
farm’s crops would not have flourished as they did, Music Men, mechanical plows
or not. Without Elizabeth, the Music Men may have never moved at all.
But the story of their marriage and the difficulty they
encountered leading them to move to the farm in Virginia was nothing compared
to the recounting of Elizabeth’s experiments with plants, soils and even algae.
Her discoveries had become secrets when she was killed. Those secrets were now
held within her journals and notes that Thomas closely guarded.
The puffer slowed to a stop behind the White House, buffeted
by winds that refused to give up winter.
As he hurried with bag in hand and gripping tightly his collar in the
other, he hunched towards a door used only on rare occasions such as this one.
Looking just below the rim of his hat, he saw the smiling, familiar face of an
old friend.
“Get in here, Thomas!” said a burly man with a moustache the
size of an alley cat spread across his upper lip. “The only person I usually
hold a door open for is the man who saved this union and not some farm plow
inventor!” William H. Crook may have been President Lincoln’s personal
bodyguard willing to lay down his life for the great man, but didn’t relish
having to serve also as doorman for a young man with wild ideas.
“William, it’s good to see you as well,” Thomas replied as
he stepped inside a dark anteroom behind the First Family’s private residence.
“I see that the end of the war hasn’t lightened your mood any.”
Crook continued to smile a bit sardonically now. “The damned
war may be over, but there’s nearly half the nation not pleased with its
outcome or how it came to pass. There’s been another series of threats against
his life.”
“Oh, no. I thought the Pinkertons rounded up the
conspirators?”
“Rounded up three groups. We’re keeping eyes and ears on a
fourth in Baltimore. ‘Knights of the Golden Circle’ is what they call
themselves. Word is, some local celebrities and such are members. And there’s
talk that they’re planning something big in the next few weeks.”
From the back of the darkened room a tall figure emerged. “And
young Mr. Klay, I made the dreadful mistake of telling my worrisome bride about
it and about some dreams I’ve had of me not seeing summer.”
Thomas removed his hat. “Mr. President, I’m sorry, I didn’t
know you were here!”
Abraham Lincoln extended his hand. “And I imagine that there
are members of Congress who wish I weren’t. Good to see you, Thomas. I
appreciate you coming all the way over the river to this city filled with
desperados, confidence men, ladies of ill repute and neglected children. Of
course, I am speaking of Congress again and have included their families in my
assessment of the residents of this District.”
Thomas shook the tall man’s hand. “I came at once, sir.”
“How are things on the farm?” the President asked.
“Things are going well, sir. As soon as we get a solid patch
of warm temperatures, I’ll be able to plant this year’s crop. I spent all
winter clearing away the debris in father’s workshop and I’ve restored all of
the functions in mother’s laboratory. It
wasn’t easy to get things going again, especially in the lab.”
“I imagine not. As you know, Mary was particularly saddened
by the entire course of events. She truly loved Elizabeth and appreciated all
she did when Willie took ill. She credits your mother with saving his life.”
The president rested a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “I’m not quite sure what your
mother did, but I do know for a fact that those medicines and curative methods
she employed worked a far sight better than what Willie’s uncle did.
“My poor boy was dying and I’m certain that despite what his
uncle, DOCTOR William Wallace says, your mother cured him. Named my boy after
him and he refused to admit that a person of color, a woman no less, was able
to do what he was unable to. If Willie was a girl, I would’ve changed his name
to Elizabeth right then and there.’
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said looking down. “She was remarkable in
many ways. I miss them both every day.”
W.H. Crook interrupted, “Mr. President, do you believe we
should tell him about Seward?”
The President nodded. “Yes, but not in this drafty room.
Come in and let’s warm ourselves by the fire. It’s nearly April and here we are
wrapped up and shivering like Canadian fur trappers.”
Leading the way into the main part of the residence, the
young inventor and bodyguard followed Lincoln as he removed his coat and gave
it to one of the staff, waiting in a large, well-lit parlor. “Peter, you
remember Thomas Klay? He’s come here to fend off our latest band of rabble
rousers who wish to do me personal harm.”
A smile widened across the elderly black man’s face. “Thomas!
It is a pleasure. You know we still use that machine your father invented to
clean, iron and fold the bed sheets. It’s a bit squeaky these days, but those
linens are as clean as if they were woven yesterday.”
Thomas embraced the old man. “Mr. Brown, you should have
sent for me sooner. A bit of lubricant is all we’ll need to fix that. I see
that your employer has been feeding you well!”
Lincoln interrupted, “Peter, while I am certain that your
expanding waistline is of prime importance to you and Mrs. Lincoln’s priorities
extend into the linens but I happen to know she is also concerned about my
continued good health. Let’s allow our young mechanical savant to focus on the
latter at present.”
As Peter Brown left the room, W.H. Crook took a leather
bound portfolio from a desk and displayed its contents; a number of handwritten
reports and daguerreotypes of what appeared to be of the interior of a house in
disarray.
Crook began, “Last week our Secretary of State,
William Seward was brutally attacked by an intruder wearing a yellow hood.
Seward was in bed, recovering from an illness at the time when the would-be
assassin entered the house and shot but only wounded his son, Fredrick. When
his pistol jammed he whipped him with it.”
“A yellow hood?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, we believe that is the part of the uniform for
the Knights of the Golden Circle,” Crook said. “The attacker climbed the stairs
to the Secretary’s room where upon he stabbed Seward’s daughter, Fanny and
younger son, Augustus. The hoodlum then forced himself past a nurse and
uniformed Army officer and set to repeatedly stab the Secretary on the face and
neck.”
Lincoln interjected, “Seward is recovering and God
was benevolent enough to spare his family. God obviously has a keen sense of
humor to allow him to continue to pester me on a regular basis.”
“My deepest sympathies to his family,” Thomas offered.
Turning to Crook, Thomas said, “It was a gang of yellow-hooded men who attacked
my father and mother two years ago.”
“I am aware of that, Thomas,” Crook responded. “No doubt, it
is the same band. Now that the war is over, these men have evolved from
soldiers to criminals. The assassin has been apprehended and we have confirmed
he is a member of the Knights. We are close to extracting the names of his
fellow conspirators to stop them before they can wreak havoc again.”
Thomas drew a breath to speak but was interrupted by Lincoln,
“I asked you here today, my ingenious young man, to help us in ending these
crimes against our great nation? Do you have some machine that has more cunning
than a brute filled with hatred and bloodlust?”
“No sir, I do not,” Thomas answered quickly. “It is
important that we draw each of these men into the light. But such men do not do
so without the promise of achieving their plots. Like on the farm, we need bait
to lure the rats from their holes, Mr. President.”
“And what bait do you think will do such a thing? I doubt
they will surface for just any cheese,” the tall man asked.
“Our bait is you, Mr. President,” Thomas said. “They are out
to see your death in plain view of many. This death must be public and attested
to by a large number of witnesses.” He smiled. “Mr. President, I believe you
need to attend the theater.”
Descending into the White House basement laboratory that had
been his and his father’s for much of the war, Thomas lead Crook to a locked
cabinet. Unfastening the hasp, he peered inside and smiled. It was still there.
Lincoln followed behind with his trusted servant, Peter at
his arm. “Mr. Brown, you’re about to see something that you can’t tell your
beloved wife, Bessie about. You might say that this secret is at the top of the
list of many secrets.”
As Peter looked at the thing within the wooden box, he
gasped. “Mr. President, oh my lord, it’s…it’s you!”
Sitting stoically
with a fixed stare was a replica of the tall man, himself. Unmoving and dusty,
the appearance was near perfect. Its black boots and suit was covered in
cobwebs. Upon its lap sat a black stove pipe hat.
Lincoln laughed. “No Peter, meet my Music Man twin brother.
I would wager that there are more photographs,
ambrotypes, daguerreotypes and carte de visites of this handsome gentleman standing
in the battlefield than of yours truly. If you ever have wondered why I am
pictured rarely smiling in those captured images, well, it seems that Thomas
couldn’t work that out.”
Thomas shook his
head. “Mr. President, I can address that problem, but not with this wax bust.
My mother devised a pliant material made from the sap of a tree that grows in
the tropics. From the processed material, we can fashion a better, more
flexible face. But I’m afraid we won’t have time for that. We’ll need to use
this one, perhaps with a bit more gray to its beard.”
Crook instantly
understood the gist of the plan. “So we are to place this device in view of the
public whenever the President is to appear in public with the hopes that an
attempt will be made upon his life?”
Thomas nodded.
“Yes. I would caution that it would be best that no one comes too close. It’s a
good resemblance, but far from perfect.”
Crook
interjected, “But if I recall, this thing creates a good noise when puffing
about and it needs regular feedings of kerosene to keep it upright. Even
someone with poor eyesight would be able to hear it crossing a street a block
away and would wonder why it smelled of coal oil downwind of the thing.”
Thomas stood
silent for some time before reaching into his valise. He withdrew a large glass
cylinder outfitted with several glass tubes capped with oil cloth. “Mr.
President, I believe I’ve solved, or rather, my mother solved that problem some
time ago.”
Within the
cylinder flowed a viscous liquid, swirling green, red and amber.
Holding it to the
light, he continued, “It’s a rare form of algae. My mother was given a small
sample of it by her father who brought it from sea caves in the West Indies.
She grew it in her lab with little effort for it regenerates much on its own.”
Thomas explained
that the algae created marsh gas, also known as methane. The methane was
odorless, colorless and highly flammable. “When mixed with the correct about of
air, it creates a heat and flame which in turn creates carbon dioxide which
feeds the algae to create more gas. More importantly, this particular algae
does so in the absence of light,” he explained.
Lincoln stared at
the substance with understanding. “So this algae, this plant continues to
create fuel again and again without end?”
Shaking his head,
Thomas said, “Not exactly. Within a closed loop device, this can continue for a
good length of time before the algae dies unless more carbon dioxide or small
amounts of nutrients are introduced. This pint can go on for a while on its
own, though.”
Crook asked, “For
how long?”
Thomas looked
again at the swirling liquid, “I’d say this would produce enough fuel to power
a lightweight Music Man for about 10 hours.”
The room was
silent for a long while until Lincoln spoke first. “Do you realize what you
have there, son? I dare say that coal could become a thing of the past very
quickly. How much of this have you made?”
Thomas blushed as
he said, “I’ve carefully grown quite a bit. I limit the amount of carbon
dioxide, mother algae and nutrients that is added to the growing media, but at
present I’ve got about five hundred gallons stored underground at the farm.”
Crook ceased the
moment by saying, “Mr. President, we should be quite cautious about letting
this information reach too many ears. We are a country of coal but more
importantly, we have a problem with murderous thugs to manage and ferret out.
“If I understand
correctly, Thomas hopes to make your twin run on this marsh gas, appearing in
public as yourself. If an attempt is made on your life, that attempt will be
directed towards him,” he said, pointing to the sitting mannequin. “We must choose when and where our mechanical
man is to be shown.”
Pacing now, he
continued, “It must be a place where the public cannot get too close but we
won’t need to worry about refueling or noxious fumes. What about the puffing? Can
that be muffled sufficiently to render him virtually silent?”
Thomas nodded,
“If you haven’t been by the farm lately, you’ll notice that I’ve devised
mufflers and dampeners on all of the farm equipment. I like hearing the birds
in the fields. And before you ask, this Music Man does not squeak or clank.” He
lifted the Music Man’s pant leg to reveal lightweight bamboo fashioned limbs
and cloth washer hinges at each joint.
Lincoln smiled
broadly. “By Jehovah, I like this plan. Thomas,
when you suggested that I attend the theater, I have promised Mary we would do
just that. She wanted me to accompany her to see, ‘My American Cousin’ at the
Ford in a few weeks. I’m afraid that the flesh and blood Lincoln will
disappoint his bride once again. It would appear that Mary and I are going to
miss that performance. I do hope she’ll forgive me.”
Thomas smiled as
the President grasped his shoulders as one would a friend. There was much to
do. There would be announcements of their attendance to the play. The President
and his wife would ride together to the theater only to be escorted out a side
door as a mannequin of the First Lady was positioned behind a curtain of the
Presidential box. Curtains drawn, she would appear to be waiting patiently as
her husband stiffly walked to his seat before waving slowly to the crowd below.
Security around the box would be reduced to provide the best opportunity for
the assassin or assassins to make their move.
There was all
that and more. Thomas hoped he had thought of everything. If the mechanical
President was not imperiled that evening, Mary would have once again be denied
an evening out with her husband and the ongoing threat against his life would
remain.
But Thomas had
promised the First Lady that if it made it back, he had a special treat in
store for her the next day when a jig would be danced by something that
looked very much like the President.
Mary got her
promised performance on April 15, 1865 as a very alive and very human President danced a jig
at noon.
