The Sculptress V.S. Alexander (ebooks that read to you .txt) 📖

the lieutenant’s arm. The ship cut its speed again, nearly pitching both of them to the deck. She steadied herself by grabbing the officer’s waist. A few seconds later, another volley whizzed in front of them, resulting in an explosive clap and a turbulent geyser of water mushrooming into the air.

An officer ran past. “A destroyer’s been hit!”

The men split to port and starboard, searching for the damaged ship.

Emma looked behind Andrew toward the stern.

Lights flickered on what appeared to be a far-off vessel, but they blinked off as quickly as they had come on and the ocean was once again a dark void.

“Have we been hit?” Emma asked.

“I doubt it,” the lieutenant said. “We’d feel a shift in the ship’s motion and there’s been no general alarm. I imagine those volleys were fired at a possible German sub, but there was no secondary explosion below the surface. I think it’s safe for you to go back to your cabin. I must say good night, Mrs. Swan.” He resumed his push to the bow and disappeared into the swarm of soldiers.

Emma, shivering as the cold wind cut through her robe, lingered on the deck until she was sure it was safe to go below. Men drifted about with no definitive word on the destroyer’s fate. Finally, she followed a small group of officers to the ladder and descended, with the aid of lamps, to the passageway that led to her cabin. She said good night to the men and opened the door.

Two fat, squealing, gray rats jumped over the threshold and scurried between her feet. Turning to see what had caused the commotion, the men laughed at her screams and unintended jig. Furious at her timorous display, she slammed the door and made her way back to the bunk, but not before her toes had squished into the plate of unfinished pork and beans that had served as a late-night snack for the rodents.

* * *

She struggled to get up the next morning. Judging from the creaking moans of the ship, the seas were rougher than the previous night—if that was possible. She was exhausted from dreams about drowning in an ocean filled with injured men and rats, and her nerves still jangled from the submarine excitement. She dressed and then crossed to the head to wash her face and comb her hair. Picking up the plate in her cabin, disgusting as it was, she carried it to the galley, her body nearly tossed into the bulkhead several times by the vessel’s rocking.

A few soldiers sat eating breakfast; others were leaving to attend to duties. After her inquiry, one man explained that the submarine sighting had been a false alarm and that no convoy ship had been damaged or sunk. A lookout had spotted an unusual wake on the frothy sea and sounded the alarm. Most of the men attributed the wake to a whale or a dolphin pod, not a torpedo. Emma sighed and tried to eat the watery scrambled eggs in front of her, but instead of providing nourishment the food turned her stomach, her head swimming with the ship’s motion. The French coast couldn’t arrive soon enough.

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