Clockwork Souls by Phyllis Irene Radford, Brenda W. Clough

was
dangling after Lucinda Inglis he blushed to the roots of his hair. Mrs. Inglis
grinned at the sight. “Mr. President, you should know that the colonel has a
half-sister nearly twenty years younger than himself. Miss Emmelina Inglis
accepted Lieutenant McAvers’ hand at Christmas.”
    “The colonel didn’t half like the betrothal, she being but
seventeen,” McAvers admitted. “It would not prosper my suit in the least if I
had let Mrs. Inglis kill herself saving you. We’re looking to be wed once the
war is over. Soon, I hear tell,” he added hopefully.
    “We have had a meeting about a peace settlement.” The
president’s deep-set eye glinted. “Not for common gossip, mind you.”
    “Oh no, sir.”
    The garrison had been called out to keep back onlookers and
scavengers. A crew of Negro dock workers was just dragging up the first chunks
of golden wreckage. Sgt. Fanning watched them sharply as in a clamor of happy
comment and excited remark they hoisted a muddy and reed-tangled mass of metal
onto the wharf. It was a fragment of elephantine head and shoulder, streaming
water. Under the gold-plated skin the gears and pistons and levers that had
given Airavata its power could now be seen. The lifelike motion had been driven
by the soul of the elephant, presumably now departed. Bits and chunks clattered
and tinkled in a costly shower to the dirty planking. The larger portions could
easily be salvaged, but the lads of Alexandria would be picking shards of gold
out of the reeds for a generation.
    Mr. Lincoln shook his head at the sight. “Lieutenant, as
your commander I am now giving you a direct order. When this cruel war is over,
go home. Wed your Emmelina, and be happy. I shall inform Col. Inglis that the
marriage has my approval. And you, Mrs. Inglis—write to your cousin in Bangkok.
Tell Mrs. Leonowens all, and thank her for her timely warning. If ever she
comes to the States, I would be pleased to meet her and proffer my personal
thanks.”
    Mrs. Inglis dipped in a damp half-curtsey. “Of course, sir.”
    “The secret of leadership,” Mr. Lincoln remarked with a
twinkle, “is to command people to do what they incline to anyway. Now,
sergeant—have the lieutenant and Mrs. Inglis escorted back to your offices, so
they may dry out before their journey home. Ah, and here.” He bent and picked
up a fallen bit. “Miss Inglis will be in need of a ring.”
    McAvers gaped at the little stone Mr. Lincoln dropped into
his palm. It was one of the rough red rubies that had encircled the great dark
lens of Airavata’s eye, relatively tiny compared to the impossibly large gems
studding the wreckage but still the size of a comfit. Mrs. Inglis gasped, “Oh!
Mr. President, your thanks fully suffice!”
    “Nonsense, Mrs. Inglis. I am a fond husband myself, and I
know how the ladies like pretty things. But don’t tell Mr. Fessenden—the
Treasury Secretary will dedicate the wreckage to defray our national expenses.
Now, here is your carriage—you had better be off, before you catch a chest
chill.”
    Sergeant Fanning scowled at Mrs. Inglis but waved Private
Buck forward. McAvers quickly handed her up into the borrowed gig, and they
were off, back to the garrison headquarters. Only then did McAvers notice that
Mrs. Inglis was carefully cupping a Siamese filigree flower in her gloved
palms. President Lincoln never failed in courtesy to the ladies. Its gold was
wrought so finely that it looked like metal lace.
    Mrs. Inglis spoke to their driver with serene and entirely
unshaken confidence. “I shall be needing a large match-box, Private Buck—every
man in the Union Army smokes like a chimney, so I am sure such a thing must be
lying around your building somewhere. I must get this safely to a jeweler, who
can mount it as a brooch! And we shall require hot water, clean towels in
quantity, and separate rooms each with a good fire, to dry our clothing at.
While we wash up you shall have time to bring up a substantial