Anti-Ice

by Stephen Baxter

  I sipped my brandy. “No, and I suspect such stay-at-home moneypots will not be the only ones pleased if the Albert project were to collapse in financial ignominy.”

  “Ah.” Holden nodded, his eyes narrowing to give him a crafty look. “Quite so. Not every Frenchman will welcome the sight of such a leviathan trailing Union flags to the gates of Paris. Envy is an emotion quite common among your continentals.”

  I laughed. “Some diplomat you would make, sir!”

  “Well, consider them in turn!” he went on confidently. “You have your French under Louis Napoleon, the so-called nephew of Bonaparte, forever conjuring up the bloody days of old. The Russians are a medieval mass dreaming of the future. Austria is little more than a husk—look at the way she folded up in the Seven Weeks War with her German cousin! No wonder they all cast envious eyes at Britain, home of initiative and enterprise—home of the future!”

  Caught up by his vigor and lively humor I said, “Perhaps you are right. And as for the Prussians, we can expect the attention of Herr Bismarck to be fully occupied with thoughts of France. Hah! He will soon find he has bitten off more than he can chew, I fear.”

  Holden looked sharper, more thoughtful. “What a combustible, volatile mixture Europe is… Ned, have you come across the pamphlets of the Sons of Gascony? ‘Once More Unto Calais’… a stirring title. The Sons believe it is a British duty to impose order on the muddled foreigners.”

  “Sir,” I said carefully, a little disturbed by the hard light emerging from beneath Holden’s good humor, “remember that Britain is a constitutional monarchy. That is the great difference between us and our continental neighbors; in Britain power is soundly lodged, not in the hands of an individual, but in the fabric of ancient institutions and conventions.”

  “Quite so,” Holden said, nodding. “And yet our Emperor-King—and his mother—advocate the restoration of the Bourbons to the throne of France! What do you think of that? How constitutional is that? Eh?”

  I frowned, trying to frame an answer; then I looked into my glass for inspiration, only to find it had emptied itself again; and when I looked up into Holden’s pugnacious face I found I had forgotten his question. “I think,” I said, “that it is time to retire.”

  “Retire!” He sounded shocked. “My boy, look yonder: those are the lights of Ostend. You forget you live in the Age of Miracles, Ned; we have arrived! Come now; I think we should down fresh coffees before we land and begin our forlorn search for a hansom…”

  With the softest of sighs the train began to slow.

  3

  THE LAND LINER

  We spent a few days in Ostend. Then we traveled on to the landlocked construction site of the Prince Albert, which lay some eleven miles south of Brussels.

  En route our Light Rail arced from north to south over the Belgian capital, following the line of the land railway. We peered down at the Domaine Royale’s sylvan expanse and swept over the bristling roof of the Gare du Nord, the main rail station. Brussels, in the bright sunlight, had something of the look of a medieval painting: elegant, golden and ornate, and full of color and life.

  At last we slid over the Parc du Bruxelles, a pocket handkerchief of green and white spread out over the breast of the city, and moved on south away from the city.

  The countryside to the south was green, quaint and almost English—amid which the Prince Albert graving-yard, which soon came sliding over the horizon, was a startling splash of cobbles, rusty iron and oil.

  At about six in the evening we arrived at the land dock terminus. The velvet-clad girths of a party of matrons preceded us down the Mechanical Staircase to the ground, and Holden and I were amused to observe these ladies picking their way through the mud and rust of a dockyard, their hems swishing through oily puddles.

  The launch of the Albert was scheduled for noon of the next day, and Holden and I summoned a hansom to take us to our inn. The hansom jolted over roughly cobbled roads, and we peered out, bemused. A veritable makeshift city had grown up around the graving-yard—a city constructed of untarred timber, corrugated iron and cardboard, but a city nonetheless. The lanes were lined with pubs and gin houses, already doing a roaring trade despite the earliness of the evening. The ale being quaffed in great quantities was clearly of the heavy, dark English kind. There was something of the atmosphere of a county fair: tumblers rolled endlessly across our path, and we noticed a Punch and Judy stand that might have been brought nail by nail from the East End entrancing a group of children well-dressed enough for nobility; there were notices for exhibitions of such novelties as the Six-Legged Sheep and the Human Arithmometer; and everywhere there was the smell of hot chestnuts, toffee apples and sweetmeats, the bray of the hurdy-gurdy and the roundabout, and the discordant piping of penny whistlers.

  “Good Lord, Holden,” I said, exhilarated by it all, “it’s scarcely like Belgium at all. It’s more like the blessed Isle of Dogs.”

  His small eyes twinkled. “There speaks the cosmopolitan diplomat. And what would you be seeking in the Isle of Dogs, young Ned, eh?” I fear I blushed, but he held up a pudgy hand. “Never mind, lad; I was young once too. But you should scarcely be surprised. The Prince Albert is the first land cruiser, intended to sail the plains of northern Europe, but she is an English ship—designed by English naval architects, fitted out by English engineers, and built by English shipwrights. And so a square mile of Belgian soil has become an annex of the East End of London. This is an English colony, lad; a symbol, perhaps, of our technological dominance of Europe.”

  Now we came to the center of this bustling community. Here, the taverns and boarding-houses clustered thick around a strange hillock. This grass-covered cone of earth, clearly artificial, rose some 150 feet high. At the peak of the mound rested a stone lion, his paw resting on the globe of Earth, his gaze fixed on the distance.

  Again there was a faintly disturbing edge to Holden’s voice. “And here is the Butte du Lion, Ned; the Lion Mound. Built of soil carried from the battlefield in baskets and sacks by the grateful natives, so that our famous victory could be marked for all time.” He gazed up at the noble stone beast, his lower lip working.

  And I, too, studied the lion with some awe and tried to imagine that June day a half-century earlier when, not yards from this spot, Wellington had at last faced down the Corsican…

  For this was, of course, the village of Waterloo; and what more fitting place could there be to build this new symbol of British triumph? (Even though, I reflected, the English army had that day needed the bold intervention of the Prussians to beat off the rampant French. I forbore to mention this to Holden, however.)

  Now Holden leaned forward and pointed with the stem of his pipe. “Look there…”

  That new monument, the land liner, bulked on the western horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun. It was a carcass which loomed out of a sea of shanty dwellings, and it bristled with scaffolding and tarpaulin. Electric arcs illuminated the scaffolding; by their light workmen swarmed like ants.

  Holden’s voice was gruff, almost as if he were close to tears. “What a sight, Ned. What must these continentals think of such projects? They are like the peasants of the Middle Ages who gazed, straw dangling from their slack jaws, at the soaring lines of the great Gothic cathedrals.”

  I was about to remark that if we could find a Belgian in this collection of Cockneys then we could perhaps consult him on the issue—when a sound descended from the sky, a roar so powerful it felt as if the palm of God’s hand were pressing down on the roof of the hansom. Our horses bucked and whinnied, jolting the cab.

  A light passed slowly over us, white and fiercely bright, drawing knife-sharp shadows across the makeshift landscape.

  Silence spread among the revelers. The light passed beyond the bulk of the Albert and settled behind it, eclipsing the sunset.

  “Dear God, Holden,” I breathed. “What was that?”

  He grinned. “Sir Josiah Traveller, Fellow of the Royal Society, aboard h
is air-brougham the Phaeton,” he said with a flourish.

  I stared at the fading glow.

  Around us the noise of the city flowed back as water scooped away returns to its container, and our hansom jolted into life once more.

  * * *

  Our hostel was run by a native Belgian. The place was small and shabbily furnished, but it was clean, and the food was plain, wholesome—in the English style—and plentiful.

  We had an early night and, at eight on the morning of the launch day, the eighth of August, we set off in our finery for the Prince. Our hostel was perhaps two miles from the ship itself, and I made to call a hansom; but Holden advised against it, pointing out that it was a fine morning and a walk might clear our heads.

  And so we picked our way through the oily, litter-strewn streets of the Prince Albert land dock. Ale- fueled revelry was already in earnest, despite the earliness of the hour—or perhaps, Holden said, it had not ceased since the previous night. It was like a large, impromptu party; we saw well-dressed city gentlemen pushing shillings across bars to buy beer for grimy shipwrights, while ladies of all classes mingled with astonishing abandon. As we walked through streets lined with laughing faces the blood pumped through my veins and my spirits rapidly picked up.

  We turned a corner, and the ship hove into view.

  I gasped. Holden drew to a halt and hitched his thumbs in the bright cummerbund around his waist. “Now, there’s a sight. Would you have wanted to come upon such a spectacle from the poky confines of a hansom, Ned?”

  The great land cruiser had been shorn of its restraining tarpaulins and scaffolding, and now it rested on the flat Belgian landscape like some huge, unlikely beast, hedged about by cranes and gantries.

  We approached from one flank. In form the ship was something like its ocean-going cousins, with a sharp prow and a rounded keel, but there was little evidence of streamlining, and the white-painted flanks were encrusted with windows, glass-coated companionways and viewing galleries. Three pairs of funnels thrust into the air; they were bright red and each tipped by a copper band and a black cap. People swarmed around in great colorful throngs, staring up in awe at the six great iron wheels on which the ship rested.

  A plume of white steam arose already from each of the six funnels, but the ship remained at rest. As we neared I could see how the ship was restrained by great cables leading to scoop-like devices, each taller than a man, which clung to the ground—land anchors, Holden explained, a precaution against the effects of slope—and Albert was pinned further to the earth, Gulliver-like, by various gangways and loading ramps.

  The Promenade Deck which adorned the upper surface bristled with parasols and glass summer houses, and I made out a bandstand; a small orchestra pumped out tunes which floated out through the still air.

  Now we approached one of the wheels; I peered up at a central boss wider than my torso, with spokes fixed by fist-sized iron bolts. “Why, Holden,” I marveled, “each of those wheels must be the height of four men!”

  “You’re correct,” he said. “The ship is more than seven hundred feet from prow to stern, eighty feet at her widest point, and over sixty feet from keel to promenade deck. In size and tonnage—eighteen thousand—the craft compares with the great sea-going liners of Brunel… Why, the wheels alone weigh in at thirty-six tons each!”

  “It’s a wonder she doesn’t sink into the earth, like an overladen cart on a muddy road.”

  “Indeed. But as you can see an ingenious device has been fixed around the wheels in order to distribute the weight of the craft.” And I saw how three wide paddles of iron had been fixed around each wheel; as the ship moved it would lay these sections of portable roadway ahead of it continually.

  We moved through the throng around the vessel. The wheels, the cliff-like hull towering over me, made me feel like an insect beside some huge carriage, and Holden continued to list various engineering marvels. But I admit I was barely listening, nor was I studying Traveller’s triumph with the attention it deserved. For my eyes scanned the crowd continually for one face, and one face alone.

  At last I saw her.

  “Françoise!” I shouted, waving over the heads of those around me.

  She was with a small party, strolling slowly up a gangway which led to some dark lower level of the ship. Among the party were a number of mashers and other brightly-dressed young fellows. Now Françoise turned and, spying me, nodded slightly.

  I shoved my way through the perfumed throng.

  Holden followed, bemused. “What it is to be young,” he said, not unkindly.

  We reached the ramp. “Mr. Vicars,” Françoise said. She raised a lace-gloved hand to hide a smile, and her almond face dipped beneath her parasol. “I suspected we might meet again.”

  “Really?” I said, breathless and flushed.

  “Indeed,” Holden said drily. “What an unlikely coincidence it is that the two of you should—ow!”

  I had kicked him. Holden was an amusing chap in his way, but there are times and places…

  Her dress was of blue silk, quite light, and becomingly open at the neck; it showed her waist to be so narrow that I could imagine encompassing it in one palm. The morning sunlight, diffused by her parasol, nestled in her hair.

  For a few seconds I stood there, gawping like a fool. Then Holden kicked me back, and I composed myself.

  Now one of the mashers stepped forward and bowed with comic gravity. “Mr. Vicars, we meet again.” The fellow wore a short, bright red coat over a yellow and black check waistcoat fixed with heavy brass buttons; his boots were tall and bright yellow, and a nosegay adorned his lapel. This was all fashionable stuff, of course, and quite in keeping with the gaiety of the occasion, but I felt quiet relief that—with Françoise there—I was more soberly costumed. From the midst of all this color a dark, rodent-like face peered at me, and for a moment I struggled for the name. “Ah. Monsieur Bourne. What a pleasure.”

  He raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Oh, indeed.”

  Françoise introduced her other companions—personable young men whose faces and names slid past me, unnoticed.

  I turned to her. I had rehearsed some light witticisms for her on the season’s literary sensation—The Two Nations, Disraeli’s dystopian fantasy of the future—but I was interrupted by Frédéric Bourne, who said: “I suspect we shall not encounter your Prussian colleagues this day, Mr. Vicars?”

  At a loss, I was aware of my mouth opening and closing. “Ah—”

  Françoise studied me with a hint of disapproval. “You are surely aware of the progress of the war, Mr. Vicars?”

  Holden came to my rescue. “But the news when we left England was favorable. Marshals Bazaine and MacMahon appeared to be putting up a good fight against the Prussians.”

  “The news has worsened, I fear, sir,” Bourne said. “Bazaine has been dislodged from Forbach- Spicheren and is making for Metz, while MacMahon is moving toward Chalons-sur-Marne—”

  “You should not hide the gravity of the situation, Frédéric,” Françoise said sharply. I watched the fine dusky hairs on the nape of her neck float in the sunlight. She addressed Holden. “MacMahon was defeated at Worth. Twenty thousand men were lost.”

  Holden whistled. “Mam’selle, I have to say your news is a shock. I imagined that the seasoned armies of France would more than hold their own against the Prussian mobs.”

  Her elegant face took on a stern frown. “We will not make the mistake again of underestimating them, I imagine.”

  Holden rubbed his chin. “I suppose the debate in Manchester must rage ever more fiercely, then.”

  “Debate?” I asked.

  “On whether Britain should intervene in this dispute. Put an end to this—this medieval squabbling, and princely posturing.”

  Françoise bridled; her pretty nostrils flared. “Sir, France would not welcome the intervention of the British. Frenchmen can and will defend France. And this war will not be lost as long as one Frenchman still holds a chasse-pot
before him.”

  Her words, delivered in a gentle, liquid tone, were hard—not at all, I was abruptly aware through my romantic fug, typical of those of a young society beauty of her class. I had the uneasy feeling that I had much to learn about Mlle. Michelet, and I felt even less confident.

  “Well,” I said, “are you making for the Grand Saloon, mam’selle? I hear the champagne is already flowing—”

  “Good God, no.” She stifled a mock yawn with one delicate glove. “If I want to study mirrored walls and arabesques I can stay in Paris. We are making for the engine room and stokehold, Mr. Vicars, under the guide of a ship’s engineer.”

  Holden laughed, apparently pleased.

  “It’s quite a unique opportunity,” Françoise told me coolly. “Would you care to join us, Mr. Vicars?—or is the lure of yet more champagne too strong for you?”

  Bourne snickered unattractively.

  And so I had no choice. “To the stokehold!” I cried. A doorway cut into the ship’s side lay looming open at the top of the gangway, and we made our way—not without some trepidation, at least on my part—into the dark bowels of the vessel.

  * * *

  Our guide was one Jack Dever, an engineer of the James Watt Company which had fitted out the ship’s engines. Dever was a thin-faced, gloomy young man clad in oil-stained overalls. His receding hair was slicked back from his forehead and I wondered idly if machine-oil had been applied to his scalp.

  With every evidence of impatience and irritation, Dever led us in single file along an iron-walled corridor into the heart of the ship.

  We emerged into a vast chamber walled with bare iron. This was the engine room, our guide reluctantly explained; it was one of three—one to each of the craft’s axles—and it was as wide as the ship itself. A pair of iron beams the height of two men ran the width of the room, and on these beams rested oscillating-engines—piston-like affairs, now at rest, which leaked gleaming oil. The pistons inclined toward each other in pairs, like mechanical suitors, each pair supporting a huge, T-sectioned metal spindle. The axle itself crossed this stokehold from side to side, piercing through the spindles. Our guide, droning on, told us how these oscillating-engines were keyed to the drive by friction- belts, which could be disengaged on command (relayed by speaking-tube) from the bridge.