Day 25
Today we visit with Terry Tyson as he shares an interesting take on a historical event.
The Music Man
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.”
“Indeed,” the President
said, “I suggest a great deal more.”
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 at
noon the next day when a jig would be danced by something that looked very much
like the President.
Mary got her promise on
April 15, 1865 as a very alive and very human President danced a jig at noon.
****
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