A plume of white steam arose already from each of the six funnels, but the ship remained at rest. As we neared I could see how the ship was restrained by great cables leading to scoop-like devices, each taller than a man, which clung to the ground—land anchors, Holden explained, a precaution against the effects of slope—and Albert was pinned further to the earth, Gulliver-like, by various gangways and loading ramps.
The Promenade Deck which adorned the upper surface bristled with parasols and glass summer houses, and I made out a bandstand; a small orchestra pumped out tunes which floated out through the still air.
Now we approached one of the wheels; I peered up at a central boss wider than my torso, with spokes fixed by fist-sized iron bolts. “Why, Holden,” I marveled, “each of those wheels must be the height of four men!”
“You’re correct,” he said. “The ship is more than seven hundred feet from prow to stern, eighty feet at her widest point, and over sixty feet from keel to promenade deck. In size and tonnage—eighteen thousand—the craft compares with the great sea-going liners of Brunel… Why, the wheels alone weigh in at thirty-six tons each!”
“It’s a wonder she doesn’t sink into the earth, like an overladen cart on a muddy road.”
“Indeed. But as you can see an ingenious device has been fixed around the wheels in order to distribute the weight of the craft.” And I saw how three wide paddles of iron had been fixed around each wheel; as the ship moved it would lay these sections of portable roadway ahead of it continually.
We moved through the throng around the vessel. The wheels, the cliff-like hull towering over me, made me feel like an insect beside some huge carriage, and Holden continued to list various engineering marvels. But I admit I was barely listening, nor was I studying Traveller’s triumph with the attention it deserved. For my eyes scanned the crowd continually for one face, and one face alone.
At last I saw her.
“Françoise!” I shouted, waving over the heads of those around me.
She was with a small party, strolling slowly up a gangway which led to some dark lower level of the ship. Among the party were a number of mashers and other brightly-dressed young fellows. Now Françoise turned and, spying me, nodded slightly.
I shoved my way through the perfumed throng.
Holden followed, bemused. “What it is to be young,” he said, not unkindly.
We reached the ramp. “Mr. Vicars,” Françoise said. She raised a lace-gloved hand to hide a smile, and her almond face dipped beneath her parasol. “I suspected we might meet again.”
“Really?” I said, breathless and flushed.
“Indeed,” Holden said drily. “What an unlikely coincidence it is that the two of you should—ow!”
I had kicked him. Holden was an amusing chap in his way, but there are times and places…
Her dress was of blue silk, quite light, and becomingly open at the neck; it showed her waist to be so narrow that I could imagine encompassing it in one palm. The morning sunlight, diffused by her parasol, nestled in her hair.
For a few seconds I stood there, gawping like a fool. Then Holden kicked me back, and I composed myself.
Now one of the mashers stepped forward and bowed with comic gravity. “Mr. Vicars, we meet again.” The fellow wore a short, bright red coat over a yellow and black check waistcoat fixed with heavy brass buttons; his boots were tall and bright yellow, and a nosegay adorned his lapel. This was all fashionable stuff, of course, and quite in keeping with the gaiety of the occasion, but I felt quiet relief that—with Françoise there—I was more soberly costumed. From the midst of all this color a dark, rodent-like face peered at me, and for a moment I struggled for the name. “Ah. Monsieur Bourne. What a pleasure.”
He raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Oh, indeed.”
Françoise introduced her other companions—personable young men whose faces and names slid past me, unnoticed.
I turned to her. I had rehearsed some light witticisms for her on the season’s literary sensation—The Two Nations, Disraeli’s dystopian fantasy of the future—but I was interrupted by Frédéric Bourne, who said: “I suspect we shall not encounter your Prussian colleagues this day, Mr. Vicars?”
At a loss, I was aware of my mouth opening and closing. “Ah—”
Françoise studied me with a hint of disapproval. “You are surely aware of the progress of the war, Mr. Vicars?”
Holden came to my rescue. “But the news when we left England was favorable. Marshals Bazaine and MacMahon appeared to be putting up a good fight against the Prussians.”
“The news has worsened, I fear, sir,” Bourne said. “Bazaine has been dislodged from Forbach- Spicheren and is making for Metz, while MacMahon is moving toward Chalons-sur-Marne—”
“You should not hide the gravity of the situation, Frédéric,” Françoise said sharply. I watched the fine dusky hairs on the nape of her neck float in the sunlight. She addressed Holden. “MacMahon was defeated at Worth. Twenty thousand men were lost.”
Holden whistled. “Mam’selle, I have to say your news is a shock. I imagined that the seasoned armies of France would more than hold their own against the Prussian mobs.”
Her elegant face took on a stern frown. “We will not make the mistake again of underestimating them, I imagine.”
Holden rubbed his chin. “I suppose the debate in Manchester must rage ever more fiercely, then.”
“Debate?” I asked.
“On whether Britain should intervene in this dispute. Put an end to this—this medieval squabbling, and princely posturing.”
Françoise bridled; her pretty nostrils flared. “Sir, France would not welcome the intervention of the British. Frenchmen can and will defend France. And this war will not be lost as long as one Frenchman still holds a chasse-pot before him.”
Her words, delivered in a gentle, liquid tone, were hard—not at all, I was abruptly aware through my romantic fug, typical of those of a young society beauty of her class. I had the uneasy feeling that I had much to learn about Mlle. Michelet, and I felt even less confident.
“Well,” I said, “are you making for the Grand Saloon, mam’selle? I hear the champagne is already flowing—”
“Good God, no.” She stifled a mock yawn with one delicate glove. “If I want to study mirrored walls and arabesques I can stay in Paris. We are making for the engine room and stokehold, Mr. Vicars, under the guide of a ship’s engineer.”
Holden laughed, apparently pleased.
“It’s quite a unique opportunity,” Françoise told me coolly. “Would you care to join us, Mr. Vicars?—or is the lure of yet more champagne too strong for you?”
Bourne snickered unattractively.
And so I had no choice. “To the stokehold!” I cried. A doorway cut into the ship’s side lay looming open at the top of the gangway, and we made our way—not without some trepidation, at least on my part—into the dark bowels of the vessel.
Our guide was one Jack Dever, an engineer of the James Watt Company which had fitted out the ship’s engines. Dever was a thin-faced, gloomy young man clad in oil-stained overalls. His receding hair was slicked back from his forehead and I wondered idly if machine-oil had been applied to his scalp.
With every evidence of impatience and irritation, Dever led us in single file along an iron-walled corridor into the heart of the ship.