“Have you heard of the Prince Albert?” I explained the circumstances of the craft’s stealing by franc-tireurs, and the accounts of its moving south toward Paris.
But Nandron shook his head. “I know nothing of such a vessel,” he said dismissively. “And in any event our franc-tireurs are now much more profitably employed on the disruption of the Prussians’ long supply lines back to Berlin…”
Disappointed by this fresh failure, I nevertheless spent the remaining minutes waiting for Traveller’s return drawing further details from this haughty young Parisian of the condition of his city. He told me, for example, how even now the program to rebuild the thirty-year-old defensive walls was beset by wrangling and delays as rival groups of engineers argued over the selection of the most elegant and appealing design. I could not help but recall my brother’s accounts of the simple but efficient earthwork fortifications thrown up by the Russians around Sebastopol.
In the calm, fading light of that rustic French afternoon I found it difficult to accept as truth the harrowing details of Nandron’s tales.
Paris’s best hope of salvation seemed to lie with the Minister of the Interior, Gambetta, who some weeks earlier had ballooned out of Paris. This Gambetta had, it seemed, raised a new army from the very earth of France itself, and had already struck at the Prussians with some success, at Coulmiers, close to Orléans. Now Gambetta was making for Orléans where he intended to make a fresh stand against the invaders. But vast Prussian forces, formerly kept busy by the siege at Metz, were moving to meet him; and it appeared that Orléans might become as decisive a battlefield as Sedan.
Traveller returned and efficiently applied a poultice to Nandron’s leg. As Sir Josiah worked Nandron went on, “It is said that General Trochu”—the head of the provisional government—“has no fears for the future of France; for he believes that Sainte Geneviиve, who delivered the country from barbarians in the fifth century, will return to do so again.” He laughed with some bitterness.
I asked, “You do not share his beliefs?”
“I would rather have truck with the rumors flying around the bars of the city which state that Bonaparte himself has returned from the dead—or perhaps did not ever die at all, in his place of British exile—and is returning in a great chariot to join Gambetta’s armies at Orléans and drive out the Prussians.”
I nodded. “Old Boney himself, eh? What a charming idea…”
But Traveller waved me silent. “This ‘great chariot’,” he snapped in his broken French. “Do these street tales bear any details?”
“Of course not. They are the gossip of the ignorant and ill-informed—”
I looked at Traveller with a new surmise. “You think this chariot could be the Albert?”
Traveller shrugged. “Why not? Imagine the great anti-ice vessel driving through the fields of France, piloted by these intrepid franc-tireurs. Might not news of such a development reach the desperate city of Paris in a garbled form, becoming mixed up with this nonsense about the Corsican?”
“Then we must make for Orléans!” I said.
But Nandron snapped, “Your analysis is wrong. No self-respecting son of France would have any truck with the gaudy machines of the British. For it is the opinion of the Government of National Defense that the technological invasion of France by Britain is every bit as odious as that of the Prussian barbarians—”
“If a little harder to define, eh?” Traveller said cheerfully. “Well, my boy, you may despise the very name of Britain; but unless you accept British help now it is going to take you rather a long time to reach Tours on that foot, despite my miraculous healing powers.”
The Frenchman said frostily, “Thank you; but I would prefer to make my own way.”
Traveller slapped his forehead in frustration. “Is there no limit to the stupidity of young men?”
In heavily accented English, Nandron said, “You must understand that you are not welcome here. We do not want you. We must throw off the hand of the Prussians with the blood of Frenchmen!”
I scratched my cheek. “I wish you’d tell that to Gladstone.”
He looked puzzled. “What?”
“Never mind.” I straightened up. “Well, Sir Josiah; that seems to be that.”
“To Orléans?”
“Indeed!”
We bade Nandron a goodbye which was not returned, and set off once more across the neat vineyards; my last view of the stubborn deputy showed him struggling on one sound leg to gather together the papers and other materials he had transported with such difficulty from besieged Paris.
14
THE FRANC-TIREUR
“We have not an hour to lose,” I insisted to Traveller. “Even now the Prince Albert may be closing with the Prussian forces; and we can be sure that when battle is joined the situation of those innocents on the cruiser will become even more perilous.”
Traveller rubbed at his chin. “Yes. And your foolhardy plans to extract Françoise will scarcely be aided by Prussian and French shells lacing the air. We must aim to rendezvous with the liner before it joins with the Prussians. And there is another cause for urgency which may not occur to you.”
“Which is?”
He clenched one bony fist. “The anti-ice weaponry.”
I said, “Surely the preparation of the devices you have described will take some time—especially since you have removed yourself and your expertise so precipitately from England.”
He shook his great head. “I fear not. Various rocket craft—prototypes for the engines of the Phaeton—lie completed in my laboratory. It would not take long for Gladstone’s men to adapt them. And Ned, you must not exaggerate my personal importance: the principles of my anti-ice engines would have been comprehensible to Newton; a few minutes’ examination should more than suffice for any competent modern engineer. Even my more original contributions, like the gyroscopic guidance system, are hardly opaque.”
His remarks were troubling. “My God. Then we must take off at once!”
“No.” Traveller indicated the failing light—it was already five of an autumn afternoon. “It would hardly be practical to land the Phaeton in the middle of a battlefield in the pitch dark. And besides,” he added, “this has been a long day for both of us; it is barely a few hours since I greeted Old Glad Eyes in my study.”
I argued against this delay with all the force I could muster; but Traveller was unmoveable. And so it was that we prepared to spend another night within Phaeton’s aluminum walls. I scraped together a meal from the replenished stocks of pressed meat; Traveller poured globes of his fine old brandy; and we sat by the light of the mantles in the Smoking Cabin, just as when we were between worlds.
The centerpiece of the Cabin, the elaborate model of the Great Eastern, had been replaced by a replica, as far as I could see an exact match in every detail. Traveller’s little piano remained folded in its place, a sad reminder of happier moments.
For a while we reminisced on our voyage into space, but our minds were too full of the morrow. At length I proposed, “It is not, of course, merely the availability of your experimental rockets which will determine the schedule of this war. For the government will surely use the diplomatic channels available. The knowledge of British determination to use anti-ice will focus the minds of these continentals wonderfully.”
He laughed. “So, merely on Old Glad Eyes’ admonishment, they will lay down their arms like good chaps? No, Ned; we must face the facts. Bismarck knew all about our possession of anti-ice before he provoked this awful war, and must therefore have discounted Britain’s will to use it. Only the detonation of an anti-ice shell in the midst of his battle lines will convince him otherwise. And as for the French—Ned, these fellows are fighting for their lives, their honor, and their precious patrie. They are scarcely likely to respond to the abstract possibility of a British super-weapon. Again, only the deployment of such a device is likely to change their minds. So diplomacy is meaningless; there is no argument for delay. And this, I am sure, is the calculation which Gladstone and his Cabinet have made.”