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

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