Marie-François pressed his lips together, tapped them with his fingers.
I fear, he said, that all those questions are far more delicate ones than you might appreciate.
Well then, what’s he doing? Frank asked.
He pointed outside. Far out on the prow, someone hunched under a black tarp surrounded by mirrors, lenses, and other gear of brass and crystal. He kept reaching out to make slight adjustments.
Oh! said Marie-François. A most perspicacious inquiry! That is our nauscopiste.
Your what? George said.
Aint no such thing, Frank said.
Come and see, Marie-François said.
As he led them back through the passage and around the verandah, he told them:
Our science of nauscopie began nearly a century ago. After many years of study and experiment, the great Étienne Bottineau, then an unknown Mauritian engineer, wrote a letter to the Emperor—that would be Napoléon I, styled le Bien-Aimé—to offer him his extraordinary invention: a means of detecting ships before they appear over the horizon. But I shall let our resident expert explain the mysteries of his calling.
He stopped, and spoke loudly in French.
The nauscopiste unbent from over his instruments but did not remove his tarp or hood. He whispered something.
The daylight would dazzle his eyes and disturb his ability to read the subtle signs that he studies, Marie-François said. Therefore he remains shrouded.
What’s he doing now? George asked.
Marie-François translated:
He is studying the processions of the airs as they pass above. His art is not derived from undulations, clouds, nor any other perception except observation of the horizon. On the approximation of a ship towards ours, there appears in the atmosphere what might be termed a small incandescent body, visible to anyone. But it is the judgment of its manifestations and modifications that constitute the certainty and precision of his art.
Sure, but how does he do it? Frank asked.
Whisper, whisper. Marie-François translated:
He is not obliged to give an account of the principles. It is sufficient for him to operate upon the facts.
What does he see now? George asked.
This time there was some back-and-forth between the two.
His informations are for the Queen alone. But I may say that it might be wise, my dear boy, to say your prayers tonight as if you mean them.
Marie-François turned back towards the saloon.
Well, he added, we must not further interrupt such vital labors.
Frank followed along behind Marie-François, who started in about mechanical propulsion.
The nauscopiste tugged at George’s sleeve. His fingernails were long as claws. He leaned his hooded head close to George’s.
Nous avons, nous deux, he whispered, la même vraie faculté: pour faire ce qu’on peut croire. Ça, c’est le secret et mystère de notre vocation.
He tapped his head.
L’avenir, c’est ici.
What—? George said.
The nauscopiste chuckled and tugged at his hood.
Who—?
He lifted the hood’s hem and fixed George with one blue and staring eye.
George about jumped out of his skin—it was the Prince!
* * *
We are sumened by the Pirat Quein.
George caught up with Marie-François and his brother outside a big door one deck down.
Mister Pear, that man, George started to say—
But then instead he asked: Where are we?
Because Marie-François had flung the door open.
And oh! What a sight! A big space lit brilliant as limelight, filled with men and machinery. Hundreds of men, hunched together on tiered platforms, pressed their bare feet against worn-smooth rungs, pushed and rose, pushed and rose, like climbing a ladder forever, as the giant wheels they toiled over slowly turned beneath them.
And what a racket! Not just the treadmills but bellows and rocking-beams, flywheels, rods and gears and spindles: all thundering along, with cries from the foremen, shouts of the engineers, and the song of the men walking the wheels, a kind of sea-chantey.
Marie-François let the boys ogle all they wanted, then herded them along the catwalk to another exit. He pulled the doors closed.
George’s ears were ringing.
Frank was all questions: how did this attach to that, who improved whose invention, maximum this, danger of that.
That is the purpose of the nets, Marie-François answered his last question, lest those who fall be crushed among the works.
Finally, George remembered to ask his question again.
Where? Marie-François replied. Why, we travel southwards along the Grande-Rivière.
The grand what?
Grande-Rivière, or Rîve Sainte-Marie-la-Bonne: the border of Cartésia-Est and Cartésia-Ouest. The Chinese call the entire continent YíngzhMu, although they do—usually—concede that all the lands east of the Grande-Rivière are the possessions of the Emperor of the French.
He eyed George.
As, surely, he added, everyone knows.
The naw—the naw-scop—
Nauscopiste, Marie-François supplied.
He’s a bad man! George said. He tried to kill us!
It’s the Prince, he whispered to Frank.
Frank snorted.
He could be! George insisted: maybe he clunged on underneath and breathed through a reed or something.
Such nonsense! Marie-François said. I have known Charles-Valentin since childhood. As one of the nobility’s younger sons, his reduced rank is not unlike my own—and I was delighted when we were reunited for this posting.
Posting? Frank asked.
As envoy-without-portfolio to the pirate fleet. Napoléon IV naturally wishes to remain on good terms with the Permanent (or steam-powered) Emperor—but also with his rivals. As a matter of diplomacy, you understand. Hence, too, as a gesture of goodwill, his loan of a nauscopiste to our gracious Queen’s flagship.
What happened to your rank? George asked.
Oh! Marie-François said and blushed.
He waved away his embarrassment like a bad smell.
I was, ah—never quite Comte de Chaissapique-et-Patômaque. I was indeed heir to the title, but the late lord, my father, ah—found himself encumbered—in the Alsace Affair of XLVIII. He was dispossessed of his lands, title, and life, and so, disappointed of my expectations, I clung to the bosom of the Church.
He sighed.
But dear Charles-Valentin, now that the sun has set, has retired from his perch and made his report to the Queen. I shall send to him to join us.
Can he help us about the raft? Frank asked.
Marie-François pulled from its wall-hook a brass canister trailing a rubber string. He pressed it to his ear, then shouted into it. He nodded and replaced it.
(He aint the Prince, Frank whispered in George’s ear. He can’t be!)
Let us return to the saloon, Marie-François said and opened a door that led back onto the deck.
I never heard of no all-sauce affair before. What’s that? George asked.
Ha! A mere trifle, after all. Only the French can be so deeply serious about what is at heart frivolous, or so frivolous about the most serious matters of all. But thank God I am not German!
The saloon was crowded now, but the table where they’d been before was still empty. They were just sitting down when the door opened again.
Charles-Valentin, mon cher ami! Père Marie-François exclaimed. Viens prendre un verre avec nous.
A very fat man shuffled across to them. He was dressed like a tent, all in white, except for a red-white-and-blue ribbon, dangling with medals, over his left breast; bald, but with a short gray fringe; sharp blue eyes peered out of a ruddy, shaven face, like steel about to strike flint.
See? Frank hissed in George’s ear. That aint the Prince.
I can see that! George whispered back.
&
nbsp; Why’d you go and say you saw him then?
If there’d been a spittoon about (and why don’t a genteel saloon like this one got any?), George could’ve put it to good use. Just what had gone on out there, what’d he see, why’d he think—?
Aint him, he said, that’s all.
You have met my two young charges, Marie-François said. Tu connais mes petits protégés.
The nauscopiste nodded, settled his bulk in a chair, which creaked.
Charles-Valentin and I, Marie-François told the boys, in those youthful, balmy days, would often sit together—how do you say? once upon a time?—just like this, at a charming cafe in Nouveau-Bar-le-Duc, toasting the blue sky and the young ladies and our brilliant futures. But the wines of France are not to be had here in the borderlands.
He sighed and spoke to the fat man in French.
Tu les souhaites? Charles-Valentin replied. Oh moi aussi, j’m’souviens des vins blancs des Pays-Bas, doux et frais....
His voice was a bass grumble, like a mountain talking. He smiled crookedly.
A ruckus at the saloon door. The Chinese man who’d made them coffee was hauling in a lidless crate, split at the sides and spilling straw, all the way across the saloon and thump up against the boys’ table.
Charles-Valentin clapped his hands, delighted as a child with candy. He brushed away straw, plunged an arm in, and pulled out a tall, narrow-necked, green bottle. He wiped the label clear and read it out loud.
(Then he winked at George!)
Clos Sainte-Hune XIV, Marie-François translated, a fine year, a fine vintage.
Charles-Valentin bawled out a mix of French and Chinese. A waiter scurried over with wine-glasses and Charles-Valentin set to screwing out the cork. He filled a glass to brimming, drank it off, refilled it, poured the other glasses, pushed them towards Marie-François and the boys. He sat back, arms crossed, nodding and smacking his lips.
Buvez, buvez! he said. À l’avenir!
George and Frank just stared at their glasses. Marie-François raised his to his nose and breathed deep. Then he froze, the glass an inch from his lips. The whole room got quiet.
The Chinese boy they’d rescued was here! George waved cheerfully. The boy walked over to them and spoke French.
You are required in the Queen’s presence, Marie-François told them. I cannot accompany you. Be brave and good, my boys.
Charles-Valentin grunted.
This boat, the Queen’s flagship, was so big it had an extra deck above the hurricane. The boy led them up narrow stairs, along a verandah, opened a door, and left them there.
Candles inside glass jars hung from black strings, laced from beam to beam above—and books everywhere: face down like teepees, used as bookmarks in other books, piled up tall and teetering; cubbies crammed with scraps, ripped-out pages; maps, scrolls, notebooks. Half a globe of the world, perched atop a big leather book, rocked like a cradle.
In the far corner, the Queen was sweeping the floor with a twig broom. She waved them in, then kept on sweeping, to the right, the left, across the cabin until she got to the door. She tapped the dust together into a little pile outside and closed it.
* * *
We opin the Draggins egg.
She stood there for a minute, leaning on her broom.
Sweep floor, she said, every night, like when little girl, in floating world.
You speak English! George blurted.
Yes.
She whisked the broom at a missed spot.
Learn too when girl, but poor. English sailor visit boat, talk all night.
She shrugged.
Many years ago.
She hung the broom on a hook and limped across the room.
Place for every thing, every thing in place! That is heaven. Here is heaven, I am not out of it. Heaven is place, perfect order, clar-i-ty. And order, clar-i-ty, what we plant, here, on earth, so in heaven, even now. As are you. But you must re-turn, you two boys, go where be-long. Not here.
She pulled two chairs out from the piled-high table.
Please. Sit.
She pushed aside book-stacks, piled other books in new stacks, and pulled out two shiny red boxes with bright hinges.
My step son, she said, wish thank you, give gift.
The boys swung back the lids. Inside were thick folds, silk probably, and underneath a fist-sized ball, gray and knobby. George picked up his, gritty as sand. He looked at the Queen.
Is dragon egg.
A dragon egg! George exclaimed, eyes wide.
Frank frowned.
Of-course not real egg, only ugly rock. But!
She pushed the half-globe aside and pointed. George set the egg down. She opened a drawer, pulled out a ball-peen hammer with a spike on the other end. She eyed the rock, turned it a little, and struck it with the spike. Then she tapped, once, with the ball end.
The rock split and fell open.
Ah...: both boys stared, mouths agape.
Light glittered off points and edges, thousands of gems crusted to the rock’s insides, like a bag crammed full of hundreds of diamonds, bright flashing like the river on a sunny day.
The Queen smiled and bent over the broken egg, humming to herself.
She said, People same you know. Ugly out side may be, but in side— Or some time beauty out side, like beauty-full painted egg, in side rot and stink.
She handed the halves to George.
Oh, George said, Mama’d like this so much she’d put it up on the mantle in the good parlor, so folks could see.
You like gift? Good.
She bent to reach under the table, hefted up a black silk bag, dropped it, clunk, on the leather book.
Find this. You ex-plain.
She opened the bag. Inside was the gunnysack, inside that a wad of oily rags, inside that—
Is gun. I know. But where from, who make?
That’s Papa’s gun, George said.
This is the property of Mister Martin Tarr, Frank said. Return it to me.
You name Frank Tarr. I keep.
It come to me when Papa died! Frank insisted.
Oh, father dead? Very sad, lose father.
It’s from the War, George said, when Papa was in the War.
Remington Model 1858, Frank said. See?
He ran his finger along the cylinder: PATENTED SEPT. 14, 1858/E. REMINGTON & SONS, ILION, NEW YORK, U.S.A./NEW MODEL.
Who make?
I told you, the Remington Company, Frank said. In New York, way off east.
You have more? she asked.
What? Frank said. No, just the one.
And he done stole that one, George said.
(Frank kicked him.)
Buy more? she asked. I pay.
Guns don’t grow on trees, George said.
That’d cost a whole heap of dollars, Frank said. Hundreds. More, maybe. And I’d need a new raft too, to go and fetch them, and I reckon the trip’d take, what, two, three weeks?
She sighed, sat silent for a minute. Then she rewrapped the gun and pushed it across the table to Frank.
May be you need, she said. After all.
Well, you’re the Queen, Frank said.
Queen? Who say? No, first of equal, every one vote.
She stood, started pacing the length of the cabin, limping.
Raised voices outside.
All the candles
* * *
We lissen and trie to unnerstand.
snuffed out, justlikethat, all at once. Outside, brightness fell, long streaks that struck the river, crept along the water like fiery caterpillars, hissing and smoking.
The Queen limped to the windows.
Kites, she said, peering out. Kites!
She turned.
Persian fire. Very im-pressive, yes? But not much danger.
A faraway boat’s sails went up in flames but were soon put out.
Pity poor men, the Queen said, in kites.
She limped to a row of brass cans on the wall, pulled one out, l
istened. Then another. She pulled out a third and called into it, listened, put them all back.
The ship began to turn. Outside, the other ships were moving too, from bunched together to long lines, wedges.
Bombs come soon, the Queen murmured. In morning, real battle.
Bombs! George said. Oh I hope one don’t hit us.
She came back to the table.
You two boys. I believe you. But others—well! May-be not! But be safe here. I protect. Stay night, then we see.
She pulled out her pipe and filled it, lit up, puffed. The Persian fire didn’t keep falling for long. Puddles, blue at the edges, red middles, flickered, dimmed.
Sorry no light, the Queen said. Men in kites have speak, like these—
She pointed to the brass cans.
—long long string to ground, tell what see. We wait for dawn.
She shook her head, blew out a streamer of smoke. She paced across the cabin again.
Old woman now, she said. But once very pretty. Golden lotus of floating world they call me.
She stopped.
You know? Floating world?
George yawned and shook his head.
No, she said. Fngzhàng, cap-i-tal of YíngzhMu. Very famous. Harbor there, full boats, many boat. Floating world. Live, work hard, all life. Then husband come, pirate leader, take me away.
She reached the end of the cabin, turned.
New world! You under stand? Floating world, very beauty, women, wine, song, oh yes. But under very cruel, only money and fear. Now in pirate world, all hard work, dirt, noise. Few women, no wine, no song, some time no food at-all.
She reached the other end of the cabin, turned again.
But here not be owned, free to choose what do, what want, every thing place. You see?
Everyone? Frank asked.
She stopped in front of him.
Yes. All sail free. Then—!
She started pacing again.
Old Emperor die. New Emperor—hard to say. Not man. Steam power. You know, steam power?
Like the railroads, Frank said.
No. Not like. So. New Emperor, break pirate treaty. Emperor pretend truce, send husband en-voy. Ask for talk, negotiation. When get there, find Emperor fleet! Steam power fleet!
George rubbed his eyes and yawned again.
She stopped at the table, banged it with her fist.
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