The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (best books to read for women TXT) 📕

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