Clockwork Souls Read online

  “What can this be?” Hannah murmured. “A man of gears and lights?”

  Thomas had read of such things in newspapers sent by Philadelphia Friends. The specimens had been imported from Switzerland as playthings for the wealthy. Perhaps Yankee industry was now producing domestic models. Automata, they were called. He had not realized they would be so human in appearance.

  Hannah looked up at Thomas, and never before had he seen such confusion in her eyes. “Is he—a mechanical person? Or a machine, crafted in the appearance of a man but with no more of the Inward Light than a pocket watch?”

  After a moment’s reflection, Thomas said, “I do not know what he may be, nor do I think he himself can tell us, damaged as he is.”

  She made a helpless gesture. “This work is beyond thy skill or mine to repair.”

  “But not, perhaps, that of Samuel Pusey.”

  “Yes, a watchmaker might have the knowledge.” She lowered herself to one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs. “I do not know whether to bandage him or not. A poultice might make the damage worse.”

  If this had been a human man, a flesh and blood man, she would have washed him and dressed his wound, found clean clothing for him, and tucked him into the bed that Nat had so recently vacated. But she did not know what to make of this . . . automaton, this clockwork man. And, Thomas admitted to himself, neither did he.

  Samuel Pusey straightened up, replaced the slender riveting hammer beside his other tools, and removed his watchmaker’s loupe. He had worked through most of the day, carefully removing tiny, intricate pieces of metal, sometimes straightening them, other times fashioning new ones. Adam’s eyes had remained open through the entire process, his body likewise unmoving.

  “The mechanism is most marvelously wrought,” Samuel said. “In all my years, I have never encountered its like. My cousin, John Pusey of Doylestown, wrote that he’d seen one some years ago, but he did not have the opportunity to examine it.”

  “The automata must have become more common since then for one to be found so far from a city,” Thomas commented. “It appears they now have employment beyond being mere curiosities.”

  Samuel nodded, his expression troubled. “I have repaired the damaged parts as best I could, but I cannot say whether it will function as it did before.”

  Thomas bent over Adam, still stretched out on the table. “He does not appear to be functioning at all.”

  “There is one more connection to be completed. Thomas, is thee certain this is the right thing, to risk the reanimation of a slave-catching device?”

  “I do not know that Adam is a device, Friend Samuel. Were he flesh and bone, neither thee nor I would ask such a thing. Are we not, as our Friends in Farmingham remind us, under solemn obligation to use all in our power to ameliorate the condition of our fellow men, of every color and every condition in life?”

  “That has never been in question,” Hannah said quietly from where she sat sewing by the window. She was making a shirt, although Thomas had not inquired whether it was for the next runaway slave to pass through their farm, or for Adam. She did not add what they were all thinking, which was how to respond to a being that looked like a man and spoke like one, but was in fact not a man.

  They sat in silence for a time, each seeking counsel from the Light within. Thomas found no answer to his own uncertainty, and no less certainty regarding how to proceed. Samuel Pusey roused, and, without speaking, bent again over the slave-catcher’s head. Adam’s eyes remained open. No hint of expression altered the undamaged areas of his face. Thomas heard a faint wheeze, like softly escaping steam. The slave-catcher’s eyes blinked, irises dilating and constricting rapidly.

  “Do not be afraid,” Thomas said. “Thee is among friends.”

  “I remember you.” Adam’s voice sounded rusty. “Are you my master?”

  “There are no masters here, nor slaves,” Thomas said, “for we are all equal in the eyes of God.”

  “All men,” Samuel amended.

  Adam sat up. “Am I a man?”

  Thomas exchanged glances with Hannah, and saw that they were of like mind. I do not know.

  “If I am not a man,” Adam said, but slowly, as if the process of reasoning were foreign, “then why have you repaired me? And if I am, if I am a . . . slave-catcher—yes, that is why I came among you and why we ought to be enemies—then the question is the same. Why did you help me?”

  “Must there be a reason?” Thomas said. “Does kindness require any cause beyond that of God which exists in all of us?”

  “How do you know I will not continue as I have done, following the slave who sheltered among you?”

  “No fugitive has ever come to harm in our care.” Thomas laid his hand on the automaton’s shoulder. “Even thee.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Hannah finished sewing a button and snipped the thread with the little pair of scissors she kept in her apron pocket. “Then bide with us and see if understanding does not naturally arise from thy own experience.”

  The following Firstday dawned bright and clear, as if the rain had been a dream. Covered buggies stood in a row outside the Meeting house. Word had spread of the unusual visitor, and it looked as if the entire Meeting had arrived early to greet him. Friends from neighboring Meetings had come, too.

  Thomas and Hannah alighted from their buggy, then William and Adam. William went directly inside, but Thomas waited by the door, greeting others as they entered. Adam stood as stiff as a lightning rod, unrevealing of any emotion. He wore the shirt Hannah had made for him, plain and uncollared but of good woolen cloth, with William’s old coat, trousers, and shoes. Hannah had stitched the skin-like covering on the side of his head so neatly that the scar barely showed.

  The hour for worship drawing nigh, they all went in. The Meeting house was constructed with facing benches in the main room, and a divider that could be lowered to separate the men’s and women’s business meetings.

  The Meeting settled into silence. Here and there, a bench creaked as one person or another adjusted their posture. Thomas centered down, his breathing growing slower and deeper. First his body would quieten, and then his mind. He often saw himself like a vessel from which he poured out the cares of the day, the petty irritations, the thoughts and worries, until all that remained was an empty place, expectantly waiting. From time to time, his attention wandered. On one of these occasions, he became aware of a sensation as if the entire assembly were breathing in unison, even the faint click and hiss from the automaton.

  Thomas felt a gathering. All the colors in the room gradually became brighter. The silence deepened. Even the little Wilbur boy, who often found it difficult to hold still through Meeting, sat like one transfixed.

  There came a stirring on the facing bench, where old Margaret Coffin sat. Most of the time, she was so quiet, Thomas was not sure if she were awake. Her joints popped when she got to her feet. She stood, head bowed, hands clasped before her. The feeling of expectancy, of immanence, heightened.

  She lifted her head, and a trick of the sun bathed her face in light. “If a stranger sojourn with thee in thy land,” she cried out in a ringing voice, surely too powerful for such a frail body, “thee shall not vex him; but the stranger that dwelleth with thee shall be as one born amongst thee, and thee shall love him as thyself.”

  For a moment longer she stood. The scriptural reference hung in the air as if it had been written there in invisible fire. Then she bowed her head, her back bent under the weight of her years, and lowered herself to the bench. After that, Thomas sensed the entire room drifting through a mist infused by sunlight that lifted slowly, sweetly, until everyone realized that the Meeting had ended.

  As was their custom, the men and women divided for their separate meetings. The women tended to matters of caring for the sick, marriages and births and the like, and Hannah had been one of the clerks these last few years. Adam sat beside Thomas in the men’s meeting. If the automaton understood or was a
ware of the unifying ministry, he gave no sign. Much of the time was taken up with a discussion of those Friends who had been convicted and fined for helping runaway slaves. Two members were selected to receive donations on their behalf. It seemed to Thomas that Adam listened with particular attention.

  The women had not yet concluded their business when the men adjourned. This was often the case, and Thomas could never be sure whether the women had more issues to settle or simply moved more slowly through their discussions. William took Adam to examine the architecture and construction details of the Meeting house. While they were gone, Samuel Pusey approached Thomas.

  “Friend, a matter is weighing on my mind concerning the automaton.”

  Thomas nodded encouragingly.

  “I think—I cannot be certain, but I think I did not reassemble him in exactly the same manner in which he was originally fabricated.”

  “Thee was well favored in thy work, Samuel. Adam appears to function properly, although we cannot know what he was truly like before he was damaged.”

  Samuel frowned, visibly cogitating. “Thee described him as dull-witted and stubborn. Does it not seem that he now functions better? That he is more articulate, more spiritually responsive? Or might that be a result of us knowing him better, and he, us, so that he is more at his ease?”

  What Samuel did not say, and what Thomas understood very well, was the troubling matter of whether Adam possessed a soul, and whether such a soul had been present when he first appeared in the yard that rainy night. Was it possible for a being to look like a man and to speak as one, and yet have no share in redemption? Thomas could not believe it, but the matter was for Divine, not human, judgment.

  Three days later, a party of men trotted into the Covington farm. The sun had passed overhead two hours ago and the yard was dry, the air warm. From where they were working in the potato field, Thomas and William saw the riders turn off the main road. They reached the house just before the three men. Hannah stood on the porch, drying her hands on her apron. Adam was not in view, most likely still within the house. The last time Thomas had seen the automaton, he had been sitting on a bench in the kitchen, slowly and carefully shelling peas.

  The leader was a big-boned man with a thick, ginger-colored mustache and a distinctive red vest under his open coat. Thomas had never met the man before, but thought he must be Robert A. Cochoran, the same slave-catcher named on Adam’s warrant. Cochoran pulled his horse to a halt, sending the long tails of his coat flapping, but did not dismount.

  “Afternoon.” He tipped his hat to Hannah. “Ma’am.”

  Thomas stepped forward. “Good afternoon, friend.”

  Cochoran sucked air through his teeth. “I’ve come for the nigger. Don’t give me no story, neither, ’cause I know he come by here.”

  “Thee is searching for a runaway slave?”

  “You heard right. We can do this the easy way—you hand him over and we’ll be on our way. Or me and my men can drag him out, and I can’t guarantee what might get broke in the process.”

  “Thee will find no slaves here.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t take your word for it.” Cochoran lifted one hand to signal his men.

  “Friend, thee is in Delaware. We have laws, and thee could go to prison for breaking into another man’s premises. I assure thee I have none of thy property here.” Thomas spoke smoothly, having had similar conversations a number of times.

  Hannah came down the steps. “By thy appearance, thee has traveled a long way. Thee and thy companions must be thirsty as well as tired. Come in, rest with us, and share our dinner.”

  Her words produced the usual effect in those unaccustomed to the ways of Quakers. The two hands shifted in their saddles, exchanging glances. Cochoran looked confused, then suspicious, then even more confused. “That’s kindly of you, ma’am, but my business is tracking down the nigger. I’ll have to search the house. And the barn.”

  “Of course,” she said with her gentle smile, “but thee will do so with clean hands and a full stomach.”

  The slave-catcher wavered visibly. Before he could respond, however, Adam came out onto the porch. In his plain white shirt and trousers with suspenders, he looked like any other Quaker. He did not speak, only stood there. Something in his stillness reminded Thomas of the intent, listening silence of Meeting.

  Cochoran stiffened in the saddle. “Where’s the nigger? Why ain’t you caught him?”

  For a moment, no one answered.

  “Well? Get down here!”

  Adam did not move. Thomas wondered if this was the first time Adam had deliberately disobeyed a command. He thought, Only men may choose to answer the leadings of the Inward Light, rather than the commands of a worldly authority.

  He turned to Cochoran. “I have told thee, friend, there are no slaves here.”

  “Maybe not,” Cochoran said. “Maybe the nigger’s long gone. But that—” with a jerk of his chin toward the porch where Adam stood, “—that belongs to my employer, Durham N. Turner. For all your fine words, Pastor, you are indeed in possession of another man’s property.”

  Hannah walked up to Adam and took one of his hands in hers. “Adam, does thee wish to go with this man?”

  Adam’s shoulders hunched. “No, I do not. I do not wish to catch slaves.”

  Her voice was gentle, relentless. “And why is that?”

  “Servitude is hateful to me. I will not inflict it on another.” If it were possible for a mechanical throat to form a sob, that sound permeated Adam’s response. “If I, who am metal and glass, can comprehend this, then so much more must a living man, no matter the color of his skin or his station in life. Even—” and here his gaze returned to the face of Cochoran “—even thee.”

  Hannah nodded, released Adam’s hand, and stepped down off the porch. She halted an arm’s-length from the horsemen. “Thee has thy answer,” she said to Cochoran.

  “If thee would seize this man—” Thomas took up the argument, only to be interrupted by Cochoran.

  “It’s not a man!”

  “Is he not shaped like one?” Thomas demanded. “Does he not speak as one, with conscience and goodliness?”

  “Don’t you go quoting no scripture to me! That there’s one of those auto-ma-jigs, and I’ve got every lawful right to haul it back—”

  “Then thee must return with the sheriff and a warrant for his arrest, stating what crime he may have committed. Otherwise, I bid thee depart in peace.”

  Cochoran’s free hand moved toward the stock of the rifle, in its holster tied to the saddle. One of his men glanced pointedly toward Hannah, as if to say he was not easy about threatening violence against a woman who had been so hospitable.

  The slave-catcher gathered up the reins and wheeled his horse. “You ain’t heard the last of this!”

  Thomas moved to Hannah’s side as they watched the riders trot back down the road. “No,” he said quietly, “I expect we have not.”

  Adam joined them. “Thomas, I fear I have brought thee much trouble.”

  “No. Thee has brought us hope. But thee must not tarry. William will take thee north to Friends who will see thee safely to Pennsylvania.”

  Adam’s face lacked the mobility of flesh, but Thomas had learned to read the subtleties in his posture. “I do not want to leave thee, Friend Thomas, or thee, Friend Hannah. I have so much to learn. I think . . . I have been pondering the awakening of my spirit, and wondering if Friend Samuel put me back together in a different way, or if—” Adam stumbled to a halt. “A thought has come to me, that once I was a man of flesh. Not a . . . a good man, but one who took delight in chasing a terrified runaway. A man who . . . I do not want to be. I think it would have been better to let Cochoran take me, and send me back to be put once more into endless sleep, rather than to remember.”

  Thomas did not know how to answer. If Adam had been human and a Christian, citing Scripture on redemption and hope would have been appropriate. But Adam had no such shared kn
owledge, being so clearly guided by the Inward Light alone.

  In the end, Thomas decided to bring Adam to John Hunn himself. They went along briskly in the same covered buggy in which Thomas had driven his family to Meeting. Adam spoke long and earnestly, and as Thomas listened, he remembered the teachings of George Fox, who had founded the Religious Society of Friends almost two centuries ago. Thomas wondered how, in these dark times, Adam or any of them might walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone.

  Two weeks later, Thomas learned that charges had been brought against him by the former owner of both Nat and Adam, although the latter was not mentioned by name, only referred to as “a mechanical device.”

  The day after the summons arrived, a Friend traveling north from Maryland brought word that Adam had been captured and returned to his owner. Thomas received the news like a physical blow, as if his own child had been delivered into slavery.

  “I think it would have been better to let Cochoran take me,” Adam had said, “and send me back to be put once more into endless sleep, rather than to remember.”

  It took another six months for the United States Circuit Court to schedule the trial, during which time there was no further news about Adam’s fate. Inquiries revealed nothing. Thomas did not know whether Adam had been put to the work of catching fugitives or had refused and been condemned to that endless sleep. The matter troubled him sorely. He understood that slaves had little power to resist, but few runaway slaves faced execution upon their return or were forced to hunt down their fellows. This Durham N. Turner, who claimed Adam as his property, would not understand. Nor might those who championed the rights of African slaves, but who might see Adam and his kind as machines without agency or moral choice. If the plight of enslaved blacks was dire, what of those who were not even recognized as human?