As she put down her fork, a roar rose from above, echoing down the passageway. Emma shoveled her eggs into the slop bucket and hurried to the top deck with those few men who had remained below. She worked her way to the bow until she could see swells rising like blue hills on the vast ocean. On the undulating horizon, dipping between the waves, like phantoms emerging from the hills, a column of American destroyers bounced into view. The men cheered as the ships bore down upon the Catamount, circling the convoy in a wide arc. Soon, the whole assembly, American flags waving in the wind, was in formation and on its way to France.
* * *
That evening, the sea calmed.
The excitement and tension created by the voyage had left her feeling alone and bound by her own thoughts. Aboard the ship, she had created artistic and emotional diversions, reading and sketching when she could, pining for Linton many times, particularly at night when she settled into her bunk. She discouraged those thoughts as best she could, relegating them to an uneasy past while looking toward an uncertain future. Often, loneliness shuddered over her when she walked the main deck, gazing out to sea, alone with her musings.
For much of the voyage, the soldiers had been intent on war preparations, duties that required their attention—to her neglect—something she accepted wholeheartedly. Mostly, the men passed by with hardly a glance; some smiled and said hello. A few times she watched their morning drills on the main deck, thinking the soldiers acted more like excited schoolboys rather than men going off to battle. The reality of what they would face in Europe saddened her.
In her cabin, Emma heard steps in the passageway, and recognized the voice of Lt. Stoneman calling for her. At first she was wary of the officer, but after the long days at sea, she looked forward to his company because he was the closest she had to a friend aboard the Catamount.
He carried a shore-to-ship message. He sat at the foot of her bunk as Emma read it.
“It’s from my husband.” She folded the paper and placed it on the blanket between them. “We’re less than a day away from France, and I still don’t know where he is.”
“He could be anywhere, but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s serving near Toul,” the officer replied.
“Where’s that?” She knew something of French geography, but was unfamiliar with the city.
“East of Paris, near Nancy. There’s a large troop presence.. . .”
Emma expected more from the officer, but no words came forth.
“I should keep my mouth shut,” he finally said, a slight blush rising on his cheeks. “I have to treat everyone—even my own men—as the enemy until marching orders have been given. Fortified locations, troop movements, camps are carefully guarded secrets.”
“I understand,” Emma said. She leaned back against her thin pillow and studied the officer.
He smiled weakly and fidgeted with his fingers.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I only wondered why you think Tom may be at Toul?”
“There’s a good chance,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’ve said more than I should have. I must be going.”
He shifted, but Emma tapped his arm and smiled. “You have a wonderful face. Would you mind if I sketched you? It would make me happy.”
Andrew laughed and stroked the smooth skin of his bare chin. “I guess I could spare a few minutes.”
She reached under the bunk and produced a pad and pencil, the only art supplies she brought on the voyage because she planned to buy new materials in Paris.
She said little as she sketched. The lieutenant’s glasses masked some of his features—a thin, but finely shaped nose and luminous hazel eyes—but there was more to see through her artist’s vision: a wide forehead, thinning brown hair, and a jaw that clenched whenever he smiled.
He seemed intrigued by her talent and watched as her hands skimmed over the page. After several minutes, he asked, “May I look?”
Emma turned her pad toward him.
The officer’s reaction was muted; he neither smiled nor frowned. In fact, she thought his mood inscrutable. “Don’t you like it?” Her insecurities about faces rose again.
“No, it’s not that.” He touched the paper and a smudge of charcoal transferred to his finger. “It’s quite good. I’ve never seen a drawing like it, however.”
“You know art?” Emma asked, astonished that a man from Kansas would have any knowledge about the subject.
“We’re not all farm boys,” he said, picking up on her implication. “I attended the University of Kansas in Lawrence for two years. I studied art as well as the classics.” He stopped and stared again at his likeness. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but my face seems odd—I don’t know how to describe it—like it’s real, but not quite real.”
Emma sighed. “You’ve hit upon the bane of my artistic existence. Have you heard of Winslow Homer, the painter and watercolorist?”
The lieutenant nodded.
Emma turned the pad toward her and continued sketching. “Some critics say he doesn’t paint figures well because the human body is his curse. His paintings are full of light, color, and action; yet, his figures are stiff and uncomfortable on the canvas. I’ve heard the same said about my sculptural faces . . . recently, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m sure your sculptures are beautiful . . . the critics must be wrong.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, but there’s no need for false praise when you’ve so clearly identified the problem.” She continued sketching.
After a few minutes, the officer said, “I have duties on deck.” He stood up, instinctively taking care not to bang his head on the low overhead.
“Wait,” Emma said. “I want you to have this.” She hurriedly drew a few strokes on the page, tore the sheet from the pad, and handed it to him.
Holding it gingerly in his hands, he inspected it. “I will keep it in my kit as a treasure . . . but there’s one problem . . .”
“What’s that?” Emma asked, expecting another comment on her artistic ability.
“I want a signed Emma Lewis Swan.” He handed her the drawing.
Emma signed it in the lower right-hand corner: To Lt. Andrew Stoneman, from Emma Lewis Swan. And on the back she wrote: August 1917. Somewhere in the Atlantic. To your safe return to the United States. Your loving friend, Emma. She handed the portrait to him.
The officer read the inscription and smiled. “Here’s to our safe return. I’ll see you when we depart ship.” He turned and left the cabin.
The engines chugged below, a constant but sometimes mournful sound, over the calm waters. She fluffed the pillow and the hum of the ship reinforced her solitude, as if she were floating alone on the immense sea. She had little desire for supper, and, as the night wore on, she read for an hour before falling into a sleep deeper than any she’d experienced since leaving Boston.
* * *
Early the next morning, Emma stood on the bow with soldiers who cupped their hands to shield their eyes from the eastern sun, their gazes fixed on a hazy spit of land on the horizon. Happy the night had passed uneventfully after the previous night’s submarine scare, she craned her neck to see what the men said was the French coast. “Do you know where we’re landing?” she asked one of them. No one had told her where the ship would eventually dock.
“I guess it’s safe to say,” one of the officers said. “We found out this morning. We’re docking at Saint-Nazaire.”
Emma motioned for him to proceed. The name meant nothing to her.
He continued. “At the mouth of the Loire.”
She nodded halfheartedly, attempting to construct a map of France in her head. However, there was no spot on her imagined map for Saint-Nazaire.
The morning was fresh: the wind off the ocean swirled past her face; she inhaled deep draughts of air. It smelled different near the coast than on the high seas; the odor of fish and silt overpowered the crisp salinity of the ocean. The sun glinted in large patches on the green water.
A
chorus of whoops and cheers arose from the deck. Emma cupped her right hand over her eyes and looked toward the emerging coastline. Then she saw them—a row of fishing boats cutting madly through the waters toward their convoy, escorts to their already formidable firepower. On the distant vessels, tiny figures scrambled forward, men waving their arms, proudly holding French and American flags. Emma looked across the Catamount’s bow, the men crowding as far forward as they could, joyous and smiling in anticipation of the French landing. She marveled at their spirit, living for the moment, unfazed by the hooded specter of death. She steeled herself to be as brave as those men around her and recalled Sargent’s words: “Mrs. Swan, be prepared for horrors you never dreamed possible.”
The boats circled the convoy and then, like an armada, they steamed toward the coast. Emma stood on deck, feeling secure as part of the fleet. Someone tapped her shoulder.
The lieutenant smiled at her. “We’re not out of danger yet,” he said in a low voice.
“Ever the bearer of good news?”
“The Germans patrol the Loire daily. It’s more perilous than the open ocean, but we’ll be in port soon and then most of the danger will be over . . . if we don’t get torpedoed as we dock.” He gave her a sly smile.
“Your humor is a bit ghoulish for such a joyous morning,” Emma said.
The men gathered on deck broke into a spontaneous chorus of “Over There.”
Lieutenant Stoneman mouthed the words and thrust his fist into the air as the men sang, “That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming.”
Emma listened as the green fields, the sparse trees, and the raking white shore of the coast crept ever closer.
“A New York soldier on board learned this song directly from the composer,” he said. “It’s spreading like a Kansas wildfire in March.” His mood quickly darkened. “God and death watch over us,” he continued over the raised voices. “In a war, you can’t tell who’s calling the shots.”
“I vote for God,” Emma said. “How long until we dock?”
“An hour or two at most. You might want to gather your things.”
“I’ll go below, then.” Emma smiled and looked up into his face. “I do hope we meet again under more pleasant circumstances.” She thrust out her hand.
He shook it lightly. “Perhaps we’ll meet again. How will you get to Paris?”
“As best I can. By rail, I hope. If I have to, I’ll hire a driver—by car or mule. Then, I’ll plan a reunion with my husband at Toul, or wherever he may be.”
“Lucky man,” he said and kissed her hand. “The pleasure has been mine.” With that he withdrew and left her standing with the soldiers.
“Remember your portrait,” she shouted after him.
“For good luck,” he shouted back.
“For good luck,” Emma whispered as the officer disappeared from view.
The coast of France glided by the convoy; the sun and the breeze buoyed her. At that moment, she had few cares in the world other than how to get to Paris.
* * *
She opened a telegram an officer handed her as she disembarked, stopping in the sun near the gangplank. While she read, the soldiers filed into formation on the dock to shouted cadences.
My Dearest Emma:
With all hope and prayers, this should find you well in France. Contact Dr. Harvey, 56 rue de Paul, Paris, for full details.
Your husband,
Tom
The estuary smelled of fish and fuel, unpleasant really, but Emma was happy to have her feet back on the ground—albeit more than three thousand miles from home. Aside from the general commotion of the soldiers and the drill formations, there seemed to be little activity in the port. No brass bands blasted patriotic tunes; no rifle salutes greeted the arriving troops; no French citizens, aside from those on the fishing boats, waved the Tricolor. Emma folded the telegram, placed it in her purse, lifted her suitcase, and strode toward the stone-and-brick buildings that bordered the edge of the harbor.
The city was oddly quiet, as if smothered by the war. Women and children wandered listlessly and the men who remained, all older and not called to service, gathered on the street corners to smoke or sip coffee. Time in Saint-Nazaire seemed measured by bombs and bullets and the deaths that haunted Breton, not by the passing hours.
“Où est la gare?”
The old man with the pipe stared at Emma as if the Virgin had arisen miraculously from the depths of the estuary. He muttered so quickly in French, between heavy draws on his pipe, that Emma couldn’t understand him.
“Répétez, s’il vous plaît,” she said.
Her admonition only increased the man’s agitation, causing her to be more confused by the lack of connection.
“The train station . . . the train station,” Emma repeated loudly as if the emphatic English would have any effect. “I’m trying to find the train station. I’m hoping to get to Paris by the end of the day.” Exasperated, she shook her head. “That and a bite to eat.”
The man nodded excitedly as if he understood the word “eat.” “Le Tonneau,” he said, and pointed to a small storefront, with a green sign in the shape of a barrel hanging over the doorway, in the middle of the next block. Emma appreciated the man’s recommendation. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and any spot that served food would be welcome. In the excitement of sighting the French coast and packing for arrival, she had neglected to eat breakfast.
“Merci, Monsieur,” she said.
The man waved her toward Le Tonneau in a friendly gesture of encouragement.
A white cat had curled his sleek body into a ball in a sun-splashed chair outside the open door. Red geraniums bloomed in profusion from the window boxes. Inside, the café was considerably lighter and cheerier than Emma had expected from her initial impression.
A thin young woman with dark hair was washing glasses behind the counter. A look of concern flashed in her eyes, an initial distrust that remained unabated when Emma inquired in broken French about the train station and food. The two stood alone in the café.
“Where are you from?” the woman asked in English, a light French accent glazing her words.
“I’m glad you speak English,” Emma said with relief. “I was beginning to feel like a stranger in a strange land.”
“You are a stranger,” the woman responded, neither smiling nor giving any hint of warmth or humor.
Emma was too tired to question her response. “Please, if you could direct me to the train station . . . if I could get something to eat, I’d be most grateful.”
“Do you have money?”
Emma drew in a quick breath. Of course, she had dollars—but no francs. The thought of exchanging money had never crossed her mind. Embarrassment rose in her as she blushed from her own naïveté and lack of preparation.
The woman, who had perhaps experienced similar situations with American soldiers, regarded Emma’s plight. “The station is up the street, away from the estuary. If you walk straight ahead you’ll find it. The stationmaster will exchange your money because he is prepared for such situations. Don’t be surprised if he charges you a fee—he earns extra for his family that way.”
As the proprietress completed her instructions, a child darted in from the kitchen and ran to the woman. “Maman, Maman,” he shouted as he spotted Emma. He clutched his mother’s black skirt and stared at the suitcase near Emma’s legs.
“Chut,” the woman chided him.
The boy grimaced and clenched his jaw. His thick black hair was chopped short in front; so much so, it resembled the points of a pinwheel; his handsome face was marked with reddish circles on olive cheeks. He was an angel living in a time of war. Emma understood the child’s anxiety about the strange woman who stood before him, but she knew there were bigger terrors on French soil of concern to his mother.
“Thank you,” Emma said to the woman, keeping her eyes off the child. She turned to leave the café.
“Where are you headed?” the woman asked.
> “Paris.” Emma looked over her shoulder at the pale visage.
The woman parted her lips but didn’t smile. “Good luck. I don’t think you Americans will be strong enough to win the war—to beat the Boche. I hope so, but I don’t believe it. The Germans are invincible. I fear for our lives.”
“Please . . . can the child understand? You’ll frighten him to death.”
“My son? He knows too well what war can do. His Italian father is dead—killed at the Front.”
Pain spread over the woman’s face, her eyes swelling as the lids reddened with sorrow. The boy called out again for his mother and clutched her skirt in his balled fists. Emma reached to comfort her, but the woman drew away.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said, retreating, “I am truly sorry.”
The woman composed herself and muttered, “Bon voyage.”
Emma thanked her and walked out the door, past the napping cat, into the bright sunlight that filled the street like a soothing balm.
* * *
The boy’s face from the café floated before her as she stared out the train window.
What remained of the watery reeds and willows slid by in a rush of green. She circled a finger against the glass, absorbed by the past, and then erased her hazy smudges with a handkerchief. For the first time in more than a week she was without the company of soldiers.
The branches of a dead tree flashed by the window, the skeletal limbs so close they scratched against the glass, causing Emma to flinch in her seat. A woman across the aisle stared at her for a moment, then averted her eyes and returned to her reading.
The Sculptress Page 19