The Mechanical Mind of John Coggin (17 page)

“Y
OU BOYS LOOK
like you've been in the wars,” Colonel Joe said drily.

His father had been right, John thought. The world has a funny way of surprising you.

Thanks to his encounter with Alligator Dan—who had also arrived at the creek to refresh the horses—John, to his astonishment, now found himself back in the bosom of his old comrades.

Back, but not exactly embraced. Even in the considerable acreage of the field outside the big top, the Wayfarers were giving the runaways a wide berth.

“We're a little worse for the wear, sir. Had an encounter with a mass of mysterious malodorences,” Boz said.

“I'll say,” Porcine Pierre carped. “You smell like a cracked goose egg.”

Pierre's pets appeared to agree. At the first sniff of Boz, Priscilla had dropped to the ground, shoved her head down, and crossed both paws over her nose.

“And Dung Boy over here stinks worse,” Mister Missus Hank added, somewhat unnecessarily, John thought.

“I must say”—Boz tugged on a greasy forelock—“how fortunate we are to have encountered you all on the road to perdition. An unbiased observer might think that you too are journeying north to Pludgett.”

“Course we are,” said Colonel Joe. “Pludgett Day is in a fortnight.”

“Well, bless my soul and tie up my guts for garters.” Boz slapped his palm on his knee. “I'd forgotten your annual pilgrimage. Why, that does make things nice and neat.”

“Where's Page?” interrupted Tiger Lil.

John explained—minus a few embarrassing details—how Page had fallen into the hands of his great-aunt.

“Pleased you found use for the jackknife.” Colonel Joe gave John a nod of approval.

“I might have known she'd stoop to kidnapping!” said Gentle Giant George indignantly. “That woman is a menace to society!”

“She called us freaks!”

“She threatened to tweezer my beard!”

“She said Frank should be blistered into pork chops!”

Colonel Joe spat. “As you can see, your relative didn't
make much of an impression when she came to search our premises in Hayseed.”

John felt a faint stirring of hope. A band of resentful Wayfarers might prove to be useful allies in the rescue attempt. If, that is, he could persuade them to forgive his little episode with the mayor's baby.

“Do you know where your sister's being kept in Pludgett?” persisted Tiger Lil.

“At the workshop,” said John. “I was hoping you might help me rescue her.”

The appeal hung in the air like one of Frank's belches. Every one of the Wayfarers, including Tiger Lil, sported a doubtful brow. John knew he was asking a lot. Going up against Great-Aunt Beauregard was an endeavor not to be taken lightly.

Finally, Colonel Joe spoke:

“Well, then, folks, howzabout it? Should we take John to Pludgett to save his sister?”

Again, there was a moment of silence. All that John could hear was the faint snores of somnolent grasshoppers.

“I can't think with that stink,” said Alligator Dan petulantly. “And it's none of their right to hear what we've g-g-got to say anyway. Give 'em a b-b-bath while we decide.”

“Yeah,” said Mister Missus Hank. “Plunk 'em in a tub full of catsup. The boy pongs worse than a skunked camel.”

John was tempted to tell her that living with the Wayfarers was no bed of lilies, but he kept his tongue clenched between his teeth. He had enough troubles.

“Follow me,” said Colonel Joe. “But keep your distance,” he warned. “My nose won't stand for any more insults.”

John and Boz did as they were told, trudging around the caravans until they arrived at the back of the campsite.

Where John was gobsmacked to see the Autopsy!

He dashed over to inspect it. It had acquired a higgledy-piggledy assortment of accessories—a shaft for a team of horses, a circlet of fencing around the platform, a variety of dog dresses and pig hats and half-chewed rubber balls—but the engine compartment was precisely as John had left it.

“I—” John began.

“I told Pierre to make use of it as a nursery for Priscilla and Frank.” Colonel Joe gave John a wink. “Old men never throw anything away.”

A surge of joy pulsed through John. He knew what that meant. Colonel Joe hadn't kept the Autopsy for Pierre. He'd kept it in case John was able to come back and fix it. That could only mean one thing. Despite all that had happened, Colonel Joe still believed in him.

Believed in him, yes. Willing to stand near him, no. As John rounded the end of the Autopsy, Colonel Joe
paused a good twenty feet from his charges and pointed to two giant barrels.

“John, you sink yourself in that for a bit. Boz, fetch a bucket of bicarbonate of soda from the chuck wagon.”

John nodded. Boz curtsied and ran off for supplies.

“You'd better soak yourselves in your trousers while I rustle you up another shirt,” Colonel Joe instructed John. “I'm afraid we can't spare any more water for washing duds.” Then, hocking his beeswax over his left shoulder, he limped off toward his caravan.

John propped a rock against the barrel and heaved himself into the cool water. It felt like sinking into satin sheets. He ducked his head under and emerged as a shower of snow fell on his shoulders. Boz was back with the bicarbonate of soda.

“I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,” Boz hummed, unleashing a blizzard on John's scalp. Then he righted the half-empty box and vaulted over toward his own barrel.

For a half hour, John poached in the warm fizzy water and thought. The appearance of the Autopsy had given him unexpected confidence. He didn't care what the Wayfarers thought. By the high road or the low, he was moving forward.

The problem, he reckoned, was getting inside the workshop to reach Page. Negotiation was impossible and ambush unlikely. If he knew his great-aunt, she
would have turned the workshop into a veritable fortress. Perhaps he could get Priscilla to dig a tunnel under the door. Or ask Alligator Dan to bite his great-aunt in the backside. Or shoot Boz straight through the walls of Page's prison.

Nope, John corrected himself. Even Boz's head wasn't hard enough to level a building.

Wait! He sent a dollop of water sloshing over the barrel in elation. Not Boz—
Betsy!
She might not be equipped to launch cannonballs of any real weight, but she was certainly strong enough to punch through a wooden door. Even her shape was the same as a medieval battering ram. Get enough speed behind her metal prow, and she'd bust through the front of the workshop in no time.

But how would they get such speed? John settled back down in his tub and considered the options.

The Wayfarers could all hold on to Betsy and run at the building. Yet John strongly doubted they had enough force to batter through six-inch oak.

Using a conventional wagon was out—horses and harnesses would only get in the way of the cannon.

So that left . . .

With a triumphant spring, John leaped skyward and shouted:

“EUREKA!”

“Ahem.” Boz was on the verge of coughing up a hairball.
“Ahem!”

Dripping with excitement, John looked at his friend.

“We appear to have acquired an audience.”

John turned in the direction of Boz's index finger. The Wayfarers were arranged in a dense battalion around their barrels, with Colonel Joe leading the fray.

“Come on out, Dung Boy.”

Trousers streaming, John clambered out of the barrel and stood in front of the firing squad.

“We've talked it over and taken a vote.”

John carefully examined the faces of the Wayfarers. Then he smiled.

“It was a close-run thing, but we went with our hearts. Come hounds or high water, you've got our support in rescuing your sister.”

“You had my vote from the beginning!” Tiger Lil insisted.

“And mine!” Gentle Giant Georgie added.

“Not mine,” Alligator Dan grumbled. John didn't blame him overmuch. Even the best of men can find it hard to forgive a snake in their underpants.

“It ain't going to be a walk among the cornflowers,” Colonel Joe warned. “That woman is madder than a regiment of hornets. I'd imagine she has the whole of the Pludgett police force on the watch for you.”

“Not to mention your sister locked up in the family
business,” Gentle Giant Georgie rumbled like an earthquake.

“But I've got an idea about how to rescue her,” John said eagerly, squelching his way forward. “Using a battering ram!”

With a stick to sketch the particulars, he proceeded to outline his idea. “We fasten Betsy to the front of the Autopsy, like the bowsprit on a ship. Colonel Joe steers the carriage while I take care of the boiler and switch the gears into reverse. Boz stands on the caboose to man the brakes and make sure the furnace is fed. With a good head of steam, I think we'll be able to bust down the door in one or two charges!”

The Wayfarers crowded around his diagram.

“Smart work,” said Colonel Joe, examining the sketch. “But your great-aunt can't know what we're up to. Otherwise she'll scarper. And . . .” He sucked thoughtfully on his chipped left canine. “I don't know how we'll get it to the workshop on Pludgett Day. The streets will be clogged with the floats for the parade.”

For the second time that day, the gift of Hom came to John's aid. He had a searing vision of a ladybug's wings retracting.

“Then we'll join the parade ourselves!” he said. “We'll make a shell and hide the battering ram in a parade float of our own design!”

“May I suggest a horse of a Trojan color?” Boz quipped.

Colonel Joe contemplatively twirled the end of his mustache. “You know, that might work. We have two weeks. The Wayfarers can work on the shell while you concentrate on fixing the Autopsy.”

“I think it's the dumbest idea I've ever heard,” snorted Mister Missus Hank.

“Sometimes dumb ideas are the best ones of all,” John retorted. Then he grinned—what did it say about his mental state that he was quoting Boz?

“Well, it's the best we've got at the moment.” Colonel Joe drew his foot across the sand, obliterating their traces. “So let's give it a go!”

W
ITH A HEAVE,
a
harrumph
, and a whole lot of dust, the Wayfarers hustled their way north. For the grand plan to work, everyone had to be in position and ready to launch the float on Pludgett Day. It didn't escape John's sense of the absurd that this also happened to be his birthday.

But the old familiar gusher of enthusiasm was rising inside him. As soon as Frank and Priscilla's slobbery toys had been removed, John took up residence in the Autopsy. He slept in the cabin and ate on the platform and worked his tail off in the engine compartment. It would take all of his brain and sinew to get his steam carriage working in time.

His previous failures now spurred him forward. Finally he knew why his boiler had split—he had used a solder that couldn't withstand the heat, just like the mortar on
the generator of his oven. Happily, he saw why his chains had tangled—as he had seen on the mayor's baby, they needed to be tight to bite. His instructions to Boz about repairs were detailed and specific.

Fixing the Autopsy was one thing. Getting a bunch of nutty entertainers to build a float was another challenge altogether. As John was to discover, many of the Wayfarers didn't know one end of a screw from the other.

Moreover, they weren't used to being bossed around by an eleven-year-old. On the first day of float construction, they had argued over his blueprints incessantly. Even the shape of the thing was a source of contention.

“I think it should be a pirate ship!”

“An exploding birthday cake!”

“A humongous narwhal!”

But John was not the same boy as last year—the one who had attempted to appease everyone and ended up pleasing no one. This was
his
idea and
his
invention. And he knew exactly what he wanted.

“No,” he said, remembering the eyes of the garter snake and the scream of the freight train and the serpent of fire that stalked his dreams in the desert. “It's going to be a mechanical dragon.” He cut off Mister Missus Hank before she could protest. “And that's final.”

And so the Wayfarers set to work. What with the sawing and the welding and the oil and the sweat, there was little time for socializing. Nevertheless, John noticed that
there was one member of the band who was spending a lot of time with the Autopsy.

And that man was Alligator Dan.

John couldn't understand it. His sworn enemy was hustling up wheels and wood with the speed of his reptilian ancestors. John would mutter aloud that he needed this or that, and the tool would be by his side the very next hour. Yet Alligator Dan never said a word.

Eventually John could stand the suspense no more. “Dan?”

Alligator Dan paused in the process of sanding the crankshaft.

“Why are you being so nice?”

Alligator Dan straightened his back and beat the sawdust from his trousers.

“I thought you were mad at me,” John insisted.

Dan shook his head wearily. “I was. Then I was mad at myself.”

John's answer was a silent gawk.

“Or jealous,” Alligator Dan clarified. “I never had the b-b-brains or the g-g-guts to make inventions when I was younger. I was only the b-b-big ugly freak that kids liked to throw rocks at. Maybe p-p-people would have treated me b-b-better if I'd been smart like you.”

In his mind, John conjured an image of a little boy curled up in a ball while stones rained down on his scales. It was funny, but he'd never thought of Dan as young. His childhood must have been terrifying. “I'm sorry about the way I treated you.”

Alligator Dan twitched. “I'm sorry too. B-b-but you know what, John Coggin? I was wrong about your inventions.” He ran his fingers longingly over the Autopsy's crankshaft. “You really g-g-got something.” Then he pointed a finger at John. “And never let that b-b-bird-b-b-brained woman tell you different.”

John contemplated his half-finished engine. Yes, he thought to himself. For all the kids with broken dreams, I'm going to make this right.

On the Wayfarers' caravans rumbled, on toward the stolid, solid wall that lay between the world and Page. Every day John refined the workings of his steam carriage. Every night he consulted with Colonel Joe on the progress of his fearsome float.

Happily, it was beginning to take shape. Granted, that
shape was more like a bloated caterpillar than a petrifying monster, but John was willing to be patient. Great creations, he had learned, take time.

“I can't get the jaws to retract!” griped Porcine Pierre.

“This stupid tail won't bend,” fretted Mister Missus Hank.

“Exactly where do I put the nostrils?” queried Tiger Lil.

John never despaired. With hard work and cajoling, he assisted the Wayfarers in rebuilding their faulty constructions and reworking their clumsy errors. It was imperative that every detail of the dragon be right. Like the words in a story, he reminded them, even the smallest nail could have a key role to play.

And still they marched north. It was coming on early summer, the grass in the meadows and the peas in their pods. Cows appeared beside the roadside, gazing in astonishment as piles of disembodied claws and fangs trundled by.

Finally the Wayfarers arrived at the outskirts of Pludgett. John smelled his hometown before he saw it—a sulfurous odor that wafted down the road and stuck to his skin. For caution's sake, Colonel Joe halted them at a campsite a few miles before the city. Nobody in town should know about the battering ram.

This was the place where the field test would be conducted. With Pludgett Day only two days away, John was
aware this was his sole chance to discover whether his boiler repairs had been effective. Whether his crankshaft could withstand the pressure of the piston. Whether, in other words, the Autopsy worked.

The trial took place at sunset. While Gentle Giant Georgie and Colonel Joe braced an eight-foot stack of logs—a reasonable facsimile of the front door to the workshop—the remaining Wayfarers assisted John in strapping Betsy to the front of the Autopsy. To carry the weight of the cannon, John had built a special extension. It was effective, but it also meant the engine was responsible for driving forward a heavy load.

John wriggled into the compartment with the critical mechanics. Colonel Joe took his post by the steering wheel. Boz scrambled onto the caboose. It was a bare-bones operation. John had decided to add the dragon frame closer to the time of the parade.

If, that was, the Autopsy ran.

“Okay, Boz.” John sparked a match. “I'm lighting the coal! Be ready to add more fuel when I tell you to!” He watched as the fire slowly gnawed through the black lumps. “C'mon,” he muttered to the furnace. “Heat!”

Slowly but surely, John felt warmth begin to emanate from the boiler. He pictured the water inside simmering, then popping, then exploding with energy.
Creak!
went the piston as it started its downward trajectory.
Crank!
went the chains as they turned the axle of the wheel.

“It's alive!” Boz shouted.

Tiger Lil let out a wolf whistle as the Autopsy trundled toward the log pile. It was holding steady, bumping and bustling over the uneven ground.

“More power!” Colonel Joe barked to John.

“More coal!” John called out to Boz.

“Drat the torpedoes, full steam ahead!” bellowed Boz.

BANG!
went the nose of Betsy into the log pile. The axles shuddered, the boiler hissed, and the Autopsy came to a dead halt. John leaped out of the engine compartment to inspect the damage.

The test, to put it bluntly, was a dud. Some of the top logs had fallen off the pile, but the majority stood firm. What was more, John knew that the dragon frame would be adding extra weight. The Autopsy simply had to go faster.

“You achieved more than I estimated.” Boz pole vaulted over one of the logs. “Don't be downhearted.”

Yet John wasn't discouraged. He was thinking. How could he eke more power from the engine compartment? The coal obviously wasn't doing its job. He needed a more potent fuel. Like, say, the poo pellets from Henrietta hens.

But I don't have Henrietta hens, John reminded himself sternly. So I'll have to try something else.

He tossed back his shoulders and addressed Colonel Joe.

“I want to take a look at the workshop entrance. See if there's a way to gain some speed on the approach.”

Colonel Joe rubbed the wax in his fake ear.

“Far too risky. Your great-aunt will either smuggle your sister out of town or sic the Pludgett constabulary on you. Or both.”

John had learned from experience that it was useless to try to argue things out with a military man. Instead, he nodded and retreated to the Autopsy. If Colonel Joe couldn't see the merits of his position, then a little subterfuge was going to be necessary.

He found his opportunity at midnight. While the Wayfarers slept off the effects of potato hash, John cloaked himself in one of Tiger Lil's magic capes and tiptoed out toward the main north road.

He got as far as the fence before he was stopped in his tracks.

“To battle and glory we go!” Boz cried, skittering along the perimeter and hurling himself at John's feet. “Half a league, half a league, half a league onward!”

“Shhh!” John ducked his head instinctively. Boz followed suit.

“I want you to stay here while I check on the workshop,” John whispered.

Boz clapped his hand over his heart. “I am wounded, sir, chiffonaded to the quick. I would have thought after our sojourn in the sewers that I would merit—”

“It's not you,” John interrupted, attempting to apply a tourniquet to the flow of words. “Well, in a way, it is. It's because you're so . . . you. If my great-aunt hears about you in Pludgett, we'll have no chance of a sneak attack. I can't risk that now.”

Boz appeared to take John's backhanded apology as an enormous compliment. “I
am
me, aren't I? And, as my brethren in tartan might brogue, there can be only one.”

John smiled. “I won't be long.”

“Aye, aye, mon capitaine.” Boz tipped his elbow to his forehead in a salute and disappeared.

A long and jumpy jog ensued for John. At every bend, he scanned behind him to make sure Colonel Joe wasn't following. At every tree, he half expected his great-aunt to drop like a bobcat on him from above.

Upon reaching the city, however, he found his confidence returned with a vengeance. Ducking and weaving through the alleyways, John charged through the streets toward the wharves. Pludgett hadn't changed. The soot and grime were just the same.

In a couple of hours, he was at the burial ground that marked the center of Main Street. There, to his disgust, the streetlamps cast a nauseating halo on the sign at the end of the road:

COGGIN FAMILY COFFINS

Supreme Craftsmen of Death

He examined the family workshop. It was even worse than he had anticipated. The front door was chained. The windows were shuttered fast. It looked as fortified as . . . well, a fort.

John clenched his teeth. Unless the Wayfarers could build a massive artificial ramp, there was no way he would be able to get up enough speed to bust through the door and the chains. It was too late to enlarge the Autopsy's boiler or adjust the crankshaft. Without a super-powered pellet fuel, his invention was bound to be a failure.

“It's not going to work,” he muttered.

“Optimistic as ever, I see.”

John wheeled around. A singular form sporting a fetching red parasol was leaning against a spindly tree.

“Miss Doyle!”

“Shhhh.” She pulled him behind a gravestone. “City authorities may be lurking.”

“How did you get here?”

Miss Doyle flicked her tongue to the corner of her mouth. “After cobbling together a crutch, I limped after you to the station. Once I learned that you had been separated from your sibling, I was forced to make a decision. The boy, I said to myself, has his wits and my training. But the girl, I reasoned—the girl needs looking after.”

Despite the fact that he had been second choice, John felt oddly pleased. It was encouraging to know that Miss Doyle trusted he could take care of himself.

“Is that strange excuse for a member of the human race with you?”

John nodded. “Boz is with the Wayfarers.” he said. “He rescued me. Sort of,” he added.

“Surprised he had the gumption.”

“So have you seen Page?” asked John.

Miss Doyle shook her head. “Not a whit. Your great-aunt has her bottled up tight.” She paused as she examined his face. “But judging by your lack of despair, I hypothesize that you already have a plan. Are the Marines in town?”

“Not exactly,” John replied, imagining Betsy blowing the workshop door to splinters. “But I am.”

Though he could see her trying to fight it, Miss Doyle's smile would not be beaten back. “Excellent.” She twisted her parasol to protect her from the first drops of acid rain. “In that case, I recommend we retire to the safety of my lodgings. Then you can tell me about your grand plan.”