Linton wrapped his hands around the trellis and lowered his head. “I do understand and that’s the tragedy of it. We should be . . . that’s the only way I can say it, Emma . . . we should be together, and because we’re not, it’s tearing me apart. Another time, another place, and we could be together.”
“I’m leaving for France as soon as I can.”
His head jerked upright and a look of terror swamped his face.
“To the war?”
“I can do meaningful work in France. Facially disfigured soldiers need me. A doctor in England makes masks for seriously wounded men and I plan to use his techniques in Paris. I’m going to give injured men back their faces and, I hope, their lives.”
Linton leaned against the trellis and chuckled through the sadness that filled his voice. “And you, a sculptress, who’s afraid of faces. . . .”
“Perhaps I will get better. . . .”
“Giving men back their lives, while taking mine. . . .”
“I’m sorry. I’ve made my choice.” The soft light from the ballroom, the music from the string trio filtered into the garden.
He swayed unsteadily as a tear slid down his cheek. “I’ll miss you more than you’ll know.” With that, he turned, lurching with outstretched arms toward the doors, brushing past Anne and the young man on the bench, stumbling as he reached the steps, falling to his knees on the brick.
Emma, seeing his fall, rushed toward him.
Anne and the young man rose to help.
However, Alex, at the threshold with a ready hand, reached down, grabbed the painter’s forearm, and lifted him from the steps.
Emma came upon Linton, but in her shame and sorrow, could offer him no consolation.
“I’ll take care of him,” Alex said and cradled the distraught man in his arms.
Emma called for Anne, who, after a hasty good-bye to the young admirer, followed her through the chatter and laughter of the ballroom and out the door of Mrs. Livingston’s home. They had passed the hostess, Mrs. Gardner, and Sargent without saying a word. They rode home in silence for Emma had nothing in her heart but a bitter sadness.
2nd July, 1917
My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):
I’m sorry it’s been so long, but correspondence between us has played second fiddle to my work. I do have good news, however. I received your letter and was thrilled to know you are coming to France. As yours crossed the Atlantic, my letter traveled to England to uncover more details about Mr. Harvey, who responded almost immediately. He was a bit skeptical at first, but overall, I believe he’s a kind and generous man. With prodding, he shared, as much as he could by letter, the particulars of his amazing therapies. It begins this way....
PART THREE
THE ATLANTIC AND FRANCE AUGUST 1917
CHAPTER 4
She clutched the iron railing at the ship’s bow and looked out over the gently rolling gray sea. The ocean had calmed after several days of squally weather, but the relentless clouds of the North Atlantic retained their stranglehold on the sky. The ship appeared to be sailing into a murky void, where sky and sea melded as one at the horizon. Except for a few officers busy with duties, and several soldiers who craved an early smoke, the deck was ghostly and empty just after dawn.
Emma scanned the leaden waters like a sentinel. Port and starboard, left and right. She had made it her business to learn nautical terms before she boarded the Catamount. Off starboard, a cruiser; another troop ship, the Santa Clara; and a destroyer sailed toward Europe on the ashen sea. The same configuration steamed off port. A fuel ship chugged safely in the middle of the convoy. The vessels formed an impressive iron triangle of men and weapons bound for France, a tactical response to Germany’s unrestricted submarine warfare.
She would not have been on board at all, if not for the efforts of an American Expeditionary Force recruiting officer in Boston. She intended to work in conjunction with the Red Cross, like her husband. Her only goal, after the recent upheavals in her life, was to get to France and begin her education with her new mentor, the surgeon Sir Jonathan Harvey. The AEF officer had been at first uninterested, particularly because she was a woman standing in a line of men offering to serve. As Emma explained her situation, the recruiter’s attention shifted from benign to rapt.
“You can help the wounded in that way?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“The technique is performed in England,” Emma said. “I plan to open a studio in Paris to serve the wounded French and our own troops. All this work is based on the efforts of Sir Harold Gillies and his success in plastic surgery.”
The officer pursed his lips and studied her from head to toe, as if he were about to enlist her. “Let me take your information. I know a colonel who knows the commander of the Port of Embarkation . . . you realize there will be paperwork, letters to write, documents to obtain.”
Emma gave the recruiter her name, address, and telephone number and thanked him. A few days later she received a call from the colonel asking her to explain her plan in detail. After their conversation, the officer seemed pleased and instructed her to send a letter to him summarizing their talk. If Emma was approved, travel accommodations would be made, the trip dangerous, and the government absolved of any responsibility for her safety. After an agonizing two weeks, during which she lived much like a hermit, avoiding Linton, Louisa, and other friends, she received a telegram giving her clearance to travel to France aboard a troop ship.
Emma accepted the conditions and a flurry of activity began: calls to her mother, who had sold many of the horses and dispensed with Matilda’s services, although Charis still lived at the farm; conversations with Tom’s parents; arrangements with Anne for running the household and caring for Lazarus; settling last-minute financial matters; distilling her possessions into one large suitcase and a purse. She sent several telegrams to Tom telling him as much as she could—without giving details that would be censored. In the midst of all this, she received her commission check for Diana. Alex would only reveal it was purchased by a buyer who wished to remain anonymous.
Emma purposely kept her good-byes to a minimum. She wanted no parties—no forced farewells with Louisa and the rest of Boston society, no tearful scenes with Linton. The night before her departure she dined with Anne in the courtyard. Lazarus lay in the sitting room, his nose poking over the threshold of the French doors. The evening was tranquil and warm and Anne shed a few tears as she cleared the last of the dishes and said farewell to Emma.
On deck, the wind lashed her body, but instead of a stinging force she felt exhilarated, hardly believing she was on a troop ship in the North Atlantic less than three days from France. Her farewell in Boston, the bumpy train ride to New York, the ferry trip from Manhattan to Hoboken, the silent men in spectral columns filing onto the ships, the departure from New Jersey—all seemed a distant memory. But as time passed and the convoy crossed the sea, Emma knew she and the ships would enter even more dangerous waters—those occupied by German submarines.
* * *
Several of the men, polite and respectful, questioned Emma about her presence aboard the Catamount. One of them, from Kansas, was especially interested in her story.
“Are you a doctor?” he asked, offering her a cigarette. It was evening, before sunset, and the suffocating canopy of clouds had broken temporarily. Threads of yellow light fell like buttery necklaces on the waves. He was a few years younger, with thin light-brown hair streaming back from a high hairline, wire-rimmed spectacles arching across an aquiline nose, and a wide, infectious smile. He was, in his own charming way, handsome.
She refused his offer of a smoke. “No, I’m not a doctor. I’m a sculptress.”
“Do you have a beau?” he asked somewhat wistfully after asking her name. She looked down at her naked left hand. She had left her wedding ring in Boston as Tom had done when he departed, the risk of losing them too great. Tom had told her that leaving the ring was “one more reason t
o come home.”
“I’m married. My husband is a doctor with the Red Cross in France.”
The soldier’s cheeks flushed. “I’m a bachelor. I suppose it’s better that way . . . in case something should happen.”
Emma shifted uneasily and repositioned the wind-whipped stray curls of hair on her forehead. “Don’t be morbid. No good can come from tempting fate.”
“Did you see the men as they came aboard? I’m an officer, as most of us are, and I know what my comrades are thinking. Death is behind every man, one hand on the shoulder, guiding us to France. Boarding was like a funeral march rather than a celebration. What are the odds I’ll be alive next year? I guess I’m lucky not to have a girl, and certainly better off without a wife and children. My parents will be saddened by my death, but they have my sister to give them grandchildren.”
“You sound as if your death is a certainty.”
“My father always told me to be prepared ‘to meet your Maker.’”
Emma was touched by the officer’s frankness; however, the sincerity of his argument troubled her. The war had been far removed from Boston. Even so, many men and women were easily caught up in its fervor. She had avoided the destructive thoughts of what might happen to Tom, or, for that matter, what might happen to the world, much like someone diagnosed with a deadly disease who would throw themselves into life rather than obsessing about the malady. Now, under the conspicuous gaze of the officer, she felt the possibility of death. The AEF recruiter in Boston had informed her of the risks, so had the government, but here were men who were fighting for various reasons—freedom, Democracy, a hatred of Germans or the Austro-Hungarians, even serving to earn a living—and willingly sailing to their own extinction. She looked out across the sea, as it darkened in the fading light, and wished the officer had never offered her his attention.
“War isn’t as romantic as the world would have us think,” she finally said. “‘The war to end all wars,’ indeed.”
“Yes, it was romantic—at first,” he replied, “like the day I left Caney station, when I boarded the train, the Stars and Stripes waving wildly in the south wind, the red, white, and blue bunting flapping against the troop cars. The gusts swept away the smoke from the fireworks. As the crowd cheered and my mother dried her tears, I understood strength, bravery, and devotion for the first time. When the train pulled away, she shouted for me to come home soon, that time and God would aid my safe return. But this war isn’t about me or any individual soldier . . . I’m just a speck. The strength, bravery, and devotion my family thinks I displayed are carried by the collective forces on these ships. That’s what makes the war worth winning. Our men—our nation.” The officer inhaled deeply from the stub of his cigarette and then flicked it into the ocean. “Time for lights out,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Swan. I hope to see you on deck again. If I can be of service, please ask.”
Emma smiled and offered her hand. “Thank you for your kindness. I’ll remember your name.” She reached for his identity tags. “Lieutenant Stoneman . . . Lieutenant Andrew Stoneman.”
* * *
After her conversation with the officer, Emma’s stomach roiled. She brought a small plate of food from the galley back to her tiny cabin near the captain’s quarters. A ship’s officer had relinquished his own accommodations when he learned of Emma’s passage and offered to bunk with another man. Emma gladly agreed to the arrangement.
The ship pitched and yawed more than usual, in rough seas south of the Irish coast. Emma picked at her bread, beans, and salty pork and then put the plate on the cabin deck. It scraped back and forth as the vessel rolled with the waves. She took a book from her bag and dropped it on her bed; however, as she flipped through the pages, her desire for reading ebbed. She flipped the electric switch and the cabin plunged into utter darkness; the porthole had been blacked out to lessen the chances of an enemy attack. She crawled into bed and pulled the wool blanket over her.
Dreams of Linton modeling for The Narcissus were coursing through her head when a bang shook her from her sleep. She bolted upright, terrified by the loud noise and its possible ramifications, her hair brushing against an iron beam near the porthole. Frantic curses and shouts filtered into her cabin from the passageway. She peered around the door to see soldiers, most without shirts, pulling on their woolen trousers, scrambling through the narrow enclosure while carrying lanterns, the beams of light bouncing off the bulkheads. She pulled on her robe and stepped into the passage as a wave of officers, scurrying to get from the quarterdeck to the main deck, nearly knocked her over.
“What’s going on?” Emma asked a soldier caught in the rush.
“German sub,” he said as he hoisted suspenders over his bare shoulders.
“Are we sinking?” Emma asked.
“Don’t know yet, ma’am,” he replied and pushed on.
Emma was uncertain what to do, but thought of grabbing her bag and heading for a lifeboat. The fates of the Titanic and the Lusitania were still fresh in the minds of every Atlantic voyager. The prospect of abandoning a troop ship in the dark North Atlantic waters was terrifying; however, doing nothing in her cabin, waiting for the vessel to sink, was an even bleaker prospect.
Her cabin door rocked violently as the ship pitched. Sporadic bursts of light from the corridor flashed into her cabin and then disappeared when the door slammed shut. She fumbled in the dark, grabbing her life preserver, tying her robe securely, opening the door once again, and stepping into the line of soldiers. The men flowed like ants up the ladder, extinguishing their lamps as they rose to the main deck. The ship throttled back as if the engines had been cut and the forward motion of the vessel became less like climbing a mountain and more like a walk over soft, rolling hills.
The wind smacked her face as she stepped on deck, the sky as black as her cabin. She grabbed the cold metal railing at the top of the ladder. The men closest to her looked past the main deck into the inky darkness, none of them speaking. Occasionally, one pointed toward the bow or the stern, the other men turning their heads accordingly. Emma inched toward the bow, clinging to the bulkhead as she walked. No one seemed to notice her.
As she passed the superstructure and emerged, unprotected, on the bow, she marveled at the sight before her. Men swarmed into the triangular point, many half-dressed, seemingly unaware of the gale that swept over them. Emma folded the lapels of her robe around her neck. As her eyes adjusted, she discerned the vague forms of the other ships in the convoy. Some bucked against the strong waves, making frothy ninety degree turns away from the Catamount. A breathtaking blast of wind hit her body and she looked toward the sky. Grayish-black clouds streaked overhead while pinpoints of stars sparkled through the broken overcast.
“Enjoying your stroll?”
Emma jumped, startled at the unexpected question. She wheeled to see Lieutenant Stoneman standing behind her.
“My God, you scared the life . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you do stand out in a crowd—”
A sharp flash cut across the bow, followed by a noise that sounded like a buzz-saw blade whizzing through the air. A hundred yards ahead of the ship, the ocean exploded in white foam. Emma screamed and grabbed 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.
The Sculptress Page 18
