But Traveller’s expression was grim; he inspected through his periscope the damage his craft had suffered.
Five of the six funnels still stood, though their proud red paintwork was scarred and mud-spattered; where the sixth had stood there was only a black and gaping wound which led, like the mouth of a corpse, into the dark stomach of the ship. Peering into this wound, and recalling the details of the ghastly August day of the craft’s launch, the blood surged to my head with an almost audible rush.
The rest of the damage seemed more superficial. The glass-covered companionways which had once adorned the flanks of the craft had been hacked away to be replaced by rope ladders—for speed of retraction in case of attack, I supposed. A thousand irregularly-placed slits had been knocked through the hull. Through these slits I could see—not the elegance of salons or the delicate wrought- iron work which had characterized the ship’s sparse elegance—but the ugly snouts of small artillery pieces.
The land liner had indeed been transformed into a machine of war.
Traveller’s anger was deep and bitter. “Ned, if the Prussians only realized how fragile the Albert truly is, they surely would not have allowed it to penetrate so deep into France unchallenged.”
“But you can see it’s an icon, a rallying-point for these Frenchie infantry.”
“It’s a symbol, but can be no more. Ned, it’s more likely to lead these poor lads to their early deaths than victory.”
I frowned and turned to the east-facing window. “Then we’d better land without further delay, Sir Josiah, for—look!”
On the horizon, under the gleaming Little Moon, was a line of glinting silver, of dark blue tunics, of the looming mouths of artillery pieces, of the nervous movements of horses: it was the Prussian Army out of Orléans, drawn into battle order.
War was perhaps half an hour away.
Albert’s ornamental pond had been boarded over, and its garden reduced to a pool of mud punctuated by the snapped stumps of trees. The whole upper deck swarmed with artillery pieces and soldiery; these assorted troops ranged from the magnificence of Hussar officers, in their sleek black lambswool busbies, to citizens—both men and women—in the ragged remains of fine clothes. On seeing these last my heart gave a leap; if such noble folk had stayed with the ship since its ill-fated launch, perhaps there was indeed a chance of finding Françoise still alive.
Traveller held the Phaeton steady for some moments, until his intention evidently became apparent; and one of the Hussar officers began to clear a landing area.
The Phaeton set down as gentle as an eggshell. Without waiting for the nozzles to cool I undogged the hatches, lowered a rope ladder and scrambled to the deck.
I was dazzled by the strengthening sunlight. (By now it was past eight-thirty.) As the noise of the engines echoed away the inhabitants of the Promenade Deck, soldiers and citizens alike, began to approach us. Every one bore a rifle—even, I was shocked to see, a woman! This extraordinary person wore the remnants of a silk gown reminiscent of that worn by Françoise on the launch day; but the gown was bloodied and torn, revealing expanses of undergarments that, in less grisly circumstances, might have seemed indiscreet. Her face obscured by shadow and dirt, she held a chassepot before her, the muzzle pointed in my direction, with as much evidence of competence and command as any of her male companions.
From this suspicious crowd emerged the officer who had earlier cleared the deck. He was a tall man of about thirty who bore well the brown tunic and white sash of his regiment, and his fierce brown eyes and pencil moustache, all framed by a brass chinstrap, spoke of strength, intelligence and competence. But his eyes were deeply shadowed, and his face was covered with the stubble of several nights. He introduced himself as a Captain of the Second Hussars, and inquired as to our business; but before I could reply a sound like a suppressed cough came from the eastern horizon.
The Hussar dropped to his face, as if felled; Traveller and I followed his lead more slowly. Traveller whispered, “Prussian artillery.”
“What? Are we close enough?”
“Undoubtedly. Let them find their range and—”
A whistling shriek tore the air, somewhere to my left; a shell fell to earth some distance from the sea of French troops and exploded harmlessly, evoking a ragged cheer from the Albert’s passengers.
But they were less keen to applaud when a second shell plowed into the ground perhaps a quarter- mile behind us, scattering troops like skittles. The deck shook beneath me, and before my horrified eyes a great gout of rust-colored soil spewed into the air. The mingling of earth and human flesh was such that it was as if the Earth herself had been wounded.
“Traveller, is this war?”
“I’m afraid so, lad.”
The Hussar officer turned to us and said, in rapid French, “Gentlemen, you can see how we are fixed; if you do not wish your fancy toy blown to pieces I suggest you fly to some quieter spot.”
I grabbed his arm. “Wait! We are seeking a passenger on this ship; she was trapped here when—”
But the Captain shook away my hand with angry impatience and hurried to his troops.
I turned to Traveller. “I must find her.”
“Ned, we have but minutes. One good shot by those Prussians—”
I grabbed his shoulders desperately. “We’ve come so far. Will you wait for me?”
He pushed me away. “Don’t waste time, boy.”
I wandered as if in a nightmare over the Deck. Within, I could not accept any image of Françoise save that of trapped passenger, of victim. And so I searched for her in places where she might be cowering, or might be locked away. I peered down stairwells which led into the interior of the ship; but where once champagne and glittering conversation had filled the air, now I was reminded of nothing so much as the interior of one of Lord Nelson’s battleships. Artillery pieces protruded like the muzzles of dogs through pushed-out hull panels, and everywhere there was the stink of cordite, the fumes of formaldehyde, the heaped bandages of an improvised field hospital. I found the Grand Saloon—or what was left of it; where the funnel had once passed through the room concealed by decoration there was only an obscene, gaping chimney, and the interior of the Saloon was uniformly blackened and destroyed. But men and women moved purposefully about, tending weaponry. The elegantly painted panels, battered and charred, looked down with exquisite incongruity over scenes their painters had surely never anticipated.
But there was no sign of Françoise. My tension and anxiety wound to snapping point.
I climbed back to the Promenade Deck. All around me there was shouting. Peering beyond the rim of the Deck to the field below I could see that the ragged French formations were already exchanging rifle shots with their Prussian opponents. Shells continued to whistle over us, splashing into the bloodied ground throughout the body of Frenchmen. The Albert’s guns had also begun to speak now; and with every shell they blasted away, the whole fragile edifice of the liner bucked and shuddered.
Then I heard, like the note of an oboe amid the din of a great orchestra, the voice of Traveller, calling my name. I looked back toward the Phaeton. When the engineer saw he had my eye he pointed skywards. Squinting against the climbing sunlight I made out a line of white, like a very thin cloud, sketched across the heavens and arcing past the Little Moon. The line was growing, as if being writ by the hand of God… and it was passing over our battleground in the direction of Orléans. This apparition made no noise, and went unnoticed by the eager and terrified troops on the ground.