“Another Scotch, Dr. Winter?” Anthony was a bright young man, very intuitive, he always new when you wanted another drink.
“Just one finger, Anthony, I will be departing soon.” replied Dr. Winter. He had always liked the Knickerbocker club. It wasn’t too formal, but the exclusivity kept it quiet, mostly. Friday and Saturday evenings could get rambunctious, but Dr. Winter generally spent those evenings at home, or in the laboratory.
“If you don’t mind me asking sir,” began Anthony, “was it business or pleasure?” “You are referring to my dinner engagement, I take it?” said Winter, “a bit of both.” “Not to be too forward,” said Anthony, “but I don’t think it went very well.” “No, my dear boy, unfortunately it did not.” Winter said introspectively. Anthony was intuitive indeed, or perhaps the conversation wasn’t as subtle as Winter had thought.
“I’m sure he’ll turn around sir,” Anthony said pouring the pale Islay amber, “he is your friend, after all.”
“He is, but even friendships can end. Thank you Anthony, treat yourself to a cigar tonight.” said Winter, downing the scotch, and rising from the bar. He felt the pockets of his velvet waistcoat, pulled out a gold timepiece, checked the time, gave it two turns, and nodded to himself. Ten Thirty, he thought, still a respectable hour. Looking up at the Imperial Longcase Clock he noticed an inaccuracy: Ten Forty. ”You can never trust other peoples work.” He mumbled. The Knickerbocker’s host returned his overcoat, hat, gloves, and cane; the footmen opened the door, and out Dr. Winter went into the cool air of early spring.
“Sorry, Governor, but Mr. Morgan requested the club’s carriage but a moment ago.” said the groomsman, “if you care to wait. I can summon another, posthaste.”
Among the upper class the adoption of a British affectation had become common place. Why use slang and airs of a disenfranchised nobility? Winter thought, Just another way to separate from the hoi polloi. The moneyed individuals were obsessed with all things Imperial. From the sprawling country estates of the Vanderbilts and Astors, to their palaces crowded along Fifth Ave; the high society was experimenting with a notion of unrestraint and dangerous one-upmanship. Earlier in the evening he had overheard the rosy J. Pierpont Morgan expressing his dissatisfaction that the Knickerbocker Club had become too common. Too common!
But Dr. Winter didn’t hold Mr. Morgan up to a high standard. During the war, while Winter had been working furiously to end hostilities as quickly as possible, Morgan paid one thousand dollars for a substitute to take his place. So much pride in himself, reflected Winter, but none for the country that made him rich.
“Never you worry about Mr. Morgan’s carriage young man,” said Winter tipping his hat, “it’s a fine evening for a walk.” Dr. Winter set his cane to the ground and started taking long strides toward Fifth Ave, turning the corner, he smiled. He had always admired Mrs. Marcellus H. Dodge’s garden. Some of the winter foliage was waning, and the pungent smell of vegetation flowing over the fence was refreshing. Dr. Winter took a deep breath and admired the essence of life while the metal tip of his cane pinged against the grey green slate sidewalk. They may be blowhards he thought, but they hired architectural artists to create these masterpieces.
“Spare a penny, gov?” said a voice from a pile. The pile appeared to be a bundle of rags with a hat adorned on top. Upon closer inspection the pile turned out to be Sykes, a familiar sight to Dr. Winter’s ageing eyes.
“Learning to work different crowds, eh Sykes?” Dr. Winter asked with an eyebrow raised. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “What have you got for me today?” Dr. Winter flipped the coin toward the pile of rags that was known as Sykes.
“Word spreads from the capital that the Confederacy is up to something. . .” began Sykes.
“Bah, nonsense, you know better than to feed me speculation and fear, I want something real, and much more local than a distant threat from our new southern border.” Said Winter, “make good Sykes.”
“Well, sir,” said Sykes with only a hint of sarcasm, “they say that the plague has returned, worse than ever, downtown.”
“I’ve heard as such, but please don’t refer to it as plague; it is Steam Sickness, nothing else. Go on.”
“This time, it was spread on purpose, to what end I do not know, but my source found something, something that would be of interest to you.” smiled Sykes, opening up a grubby hand and revealing a token that gleamed in the gaslight. Winter pulled out his spectacles from his jacket pocket to inspect the item. Sykes quickly snatched his hand away, “The usual, if you please Doctor.” he said opening up his other hand.
Winter would generally believe he was being taken advantage of, but over the course of several years, Sykes, if that was his real name, had proven to be very reliable in finding information. The doctor unbuttoned his monogrammed cuff, rolling the sleeve back to reveal a pocket. Unbuttoning that pocket, he pulled out a roll of notes. “I’m just glad you come to me with this information first,” said Winter handing over the payment, “and I’d like to continue our arrangement.”
Sykes winked and handed over the item. “You’ve always paid the correct price, Doctor,” began Sykes, “ol’ Jolly Pierpont and I know the truth, ‘Information can make you rich or get you killed’, luckily for us both, it’s not the latter.” Sykes turned to leave, “and lucky for you, I like to keep things interesting.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Winter suspiciously.
“Something is afoot tonight Doctor, wait for the carriage, or better yet summon one of those fancy light-steam contraptions of yours, the night is chill with misdeeds.” With that Sykes walked out of the warm lamplight, and into the foggy dark of Manhattan night.
Bah, thought Winter, Sykes should know that I can take care of myself. Opening his gloved fingers the Doctor inspected the trinket that Sykes had given him. A jeweled pin, almost a broach, oval shaped, and inlaid with gold. He had seen this symbol before, but where? A mysterious man, spreading Steam Sickness in the tenements of downtown? Yes, he thought, that falls into alignment. He must record this information at once. A plan was being put into action, he was sure of it. He felt it in his bones, what was left of them at any rate.
Dr. Winter’s mind was focused on his theory, constantly going over facts in his mind. Where had he seen that symbol before? His steps rang off the cobblestones of the Manhattan street. His mind was working furiously. Yes, yes, I know it now. Of course! He knew he recognized the design. He couldn’t go home tonight, no. He must get to the lab. He had to record this into his notes and secure the evidence. Dr. Winter looked around for a carriage to call, but it was too late in the night. Perhaps there would be a Central Park horse he could rent? No. Too late for that as well. There were a few people walking along the street, taking a pleasant night stroll, a few more in the distance. Damn that scotch! Leaving the club he had been relaxed and ready for a stroll, but now? Now he needed to be in his lab! This was it! This was the final piece for which he had been looking!
So wrapped up in his thoughts, was Dr. Winter, that he wasn’t paying attention to where he was going or where he was. The street was quiet. And dark. Why is it dark? The doctor looked around. Two of the gas lamps at the end of the street were lit, but the others had been blown out. Probably the wind. It had been quite breezy all day. He began to walk back toward the intersection from which he came, when he noticed two men watching him. They were just at the edge of the light. Both appeared to be young, probably veterans of the War. Dr. Winter stood his ground and watched the young men in return. Their coats were large enough to conceal any defining body characteristics. They wore dark gloves. The caps they were wearing were pulled down to help disguise the face. And if they were just passersby, they would turn and go on their way.
No such luck for Dr. Winter. The men stood in their place. How long had they been following me? Winter asked himself. Did they see me talking to Sykes? Winter made his decision. He turned, and began walking through the darkness toward the far intersection. The men began following him.
Dr. Winter increased his pace. The lackeys did the same. He reached the corner, and noticed that they were now half the distance they had been before. He couldn’t outrun them on his own. Not at his age. But these men did not know who they were chasing. This was a very different type of chase, and the power of ingenuity was on Dr. Winter’s side. He reached into his coat pocket, and revealed a small metal cylinder.
The men following Dr. Winter hesitated. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” Dr. Winter said to his pursuers, and jammed the cylinder into its slot on the side of his thigh. Or, more correctly, where Dr. Winter’s thigh should be. The metal tore through his trousers, revealing a metal leg.
It bore the dullness of galvanization, obviously prepared to withstand the elements. Clockwork gears articulated back and forth. It was a masterful piece of engineering, custom designed and built by the Doctor himself. The cylinder engaged, and with the hiss of air, the compacted steam pressed into the limb.
Dr. Winter had only tested the strength and speed of the steam powered leg in his laboratory. He had been most proud to create a replacement limb, especially after seeing so many soldiers lose their own to artillery fire during the War. It would become his crowning achievement.. His other discoveries were hailed as milestones, but once this became more accepted; he would restore life to thousands of men who deserved better.
With the pressure reaching its maximum, Dr. Winter adjusted his weight, and sprung into surprising speed. He tucked his cane under his arm and hoped that his new velocity, plus the surprise of his escape, will convince his pursuers to be otherwise engaged.
No such luck. While he is rapidly expanding the distance between them, the two men are still in pursuit. Persistence is a virtue. Dr. Winter tells himself. He scans the area as he sprints past houses, street lamps, and closed shops. The doctor knows that his bottled steam won’t last forever. He had designed it for emergency situations, but had not thought of what to do after fleeing. If I turn the corner, I could hide somewhere, he thinks desperately. Bearing down on his leg, he puts pressure to make the turn off the avenue.
Dr. Winter’s shoe is not designed to take this amount a wear in such a short amount of time. His mechanical foot tears through the sole, and slips on the fog-slick cobblestones. I should have installed a grip surface, he thinks as he falls to the ground. His top hat flies off his head, and Dr. Winter’s old bones hit hard upon the cobbles.
“That was a strange thought,” Dr. Winter says to himself, “I would have thought it would have been much more illuminating.”
He is in pain. Moving slightly, he appears to be intact. His gloves are quite damaged, but they saved his hands from a similar fate. Half of his trousers have been shredded by his clockwork leg. His head is pounding from striking the ground, and he is bleeding from his lip where he bit down upon impact. Slowly he pulls himself up to a sitting position.
The fog begins to clear from his mind, and through the fog of the street he sees his pursuers closing in. He hauls himself to his feel. His galvanized leg has been moderately damaged, several gears are loosely spinning and at least one spring has become uncoiled. No more running this night.
“Who’s there!?” he calls out, “I tell you, leave now and you will be unharmed.” Slowly Dr. Winter pulls out a thin blade, previously hidden inside his cane. The sword’s edge glints with uncanny sharpness. “Once more, I say, get you gone!” There is no response from his pursuers. They are good. If anyone heard anything, it would be evidence for the constabulary. No, whatever they mean to do, they won’t say a word.
Dr. Winter takes a defensive stance and raises the blade into position. His mechanical leg may freeze up at any moment, so he must put himself in the best place possible. If they came at him with clubs, he could best them. If they rushed him into a tackle, he would easily dispatch them from this mortal coil.
A low roar comes down as a dirigible passes over head. Temporarily distracted, the doctor looks away from the street, upwards toward the sky. Am I really this far downtown? he thinks, the cylinder works far better than I anticipated. . .
A shot rings out, and the good doctor collapses in the darkness. As he falls he flings the painted pin Sykes gave him into the darkness.
One of the men who had been chasing Dr. Winter returns his pistol to its holster between his jacket and waistcoat. The other searches Dr. Winter’s body and removes the doctor’s pocket watch while warm blood stains the doctor’s body. The first man snatches the doctor’s polished top hat off the street. The two men nod to each other and leave in opposite directions. They know that the gunshot will stir the neighborhood.
Rose, Dr. Winter thinks as the world turns to haze, I’ll be with you soon, my dearest.
