Only a few white puffs of cloud hung in the still, pale sky over Belfast. The air still held a touch of winter in it, but since there was only a light breeze the sun felt warm. Seagulls flapped in great circles above the chimneys, buildings and dockyards of Harland and Wolff. A goodly number of people had assembled by the slipway, dwarfed by the great black form resting there. On the platform, between the crowd and the newly built ship, stood the shipyard’s shipbuilder and spokesman, Edward Harland. Splendidly turned out in a dark wool suit and shining, tall silk hat.
“And in conclusion…” he said, which remark was greeted with a sigh of relief, for he had been talking for a good half an hour. “In conclusion, I wish to thank all here who have constructed this leviathan of the deep. It is through your works and your skill that we can behold this mighty vessel that will very soon join the Royal Navy. Those who sail in her will bless you for your skill and your tenacity. For you who have labored to build the guardian of Britain, the pride of our navy, the mightiest ship of war that the world has ever seen, you must be swelled with pride at what you have attained. No other ship has armor as weighty, nor guns as mighty, nor engines so powerful that they can match hers. This is more than a ship, more than an insensate construct of iron. This is the pride and the strength of Great Britain and the Empire. This is the ship that will guard our bastions. A ship that will show the flag in foreign parts right around the world. You have built more than a ship. You have built history. Take pride in what you have done, for you have labored industriously and well.”
He took a deep breath and bowed in the direction of the royal viewing box.
“I now surrender this ship to the able and noble hands of Her Majesty the Queen.”
There was a murmur through the crowd as the last of his speech was made; a flutter of applause from the stand where the silk-hatted and bonneted gentry sat. Stretched out on both sides were the crowds of flat-capped workers who had built this behemoth. Now there was louder applause, and some shouts of approval, as the tiny black-garbed figure stepped forward to the rail.
Queen Victoria looked at the massive iron bow before her and nodded approval. The Duke of Cambridge, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, was at her side. Splendid in his dress uniform, chest twinkling with medals, great ostrich plumes adorning his lustrous hat. One of his aides passed him the magnum of champagne that hung from the line secured to the jackstaff on the bow of the ship above. The sound of sledge hammers on wood sounded below as the first restraining baulks were hammered free.
“Now,” the duke said passing the bottle to the Queen. She took it in both her tiny, gloved hands, raised it as her thin voice cut through the sudden silence.
“I christen thee Conqueror. God bless this ship and all who sail on her.”
“Do it!” the duke whispered urgently. The Queen was his cousin so he did not bother to mince words. The last restraints clattered free and the great iron ship shuddered and began, ever so slowly, to move.
Victoria pushed the bottle out. It swung in a slow arc and hit the bow.
And bounced back without breaking. There was gasp from the watching crowd.
This had happened more than once before and provision had been made; a thin line had been attached to the launching rope to pull it back. One of the firm’s directors pulled on it hurriedly as Conqueror started down the greased ways. There was a grumbling roar as the great mass of piled chain secured to the ship’s bow to slow the launch moved ponderously after her.
Cursing under his breath the Duke of Cambridge seized the bottle himself and threw it in a mighty overhand swing — just as it was torn from his hands. This time it crashed into smithereens and the wine ran down the riveted iron. The crowd burst into a spontaneous roar of approval as Conqueror slid foaming into the still waters of the Victoria Channel. Rocked ponderously in the roiled waters.
Queen Victoria turned away well before the ship was clear of the slipway.
“We are chilled,” she said as the officials backed quickly aside to make way for her. The Duke of Cambridge walked at her side, then joined her when she climbed into the waiting carriage.
“A day’s work well done,” he said when the door was closed. He did not mention the near-fiasco of the bottle, not seeing any point in prompting one of her tantrums. “And the first of many to come. Six more iron ships under construction, though none to match this one. In Liverpool and Glasgow even now they are fitting out these ships of the new navy. We go from strength to strength…”
“Pull up that rug. We are cold.” Her tiny, bejeweled hands tugged at the edge of the rug, drew it up to her chin. “And what of this invasion you keep telling us about? What of this strike to the Yankee heartland that will bring them to heel?” Her voice was high-pitched and querulous.
“ Rome was not built in a day, dear cuz. We are assembling an army and that takes time. Our landings on the Pacific coast of Mexico were unopposed and successful. Troops have been landed, an army assembled. Even as we speak a road is being cut through the trackless jungle there. We must be patient. It takes time to prepare all that is necessary for a war, you know. This will take even more time for the land is savage and wild. But you must realize that this only the beginning. A fighting fleet must be assembled as well, transports assembled, the stuff of war manufactured. And we must be most cautious and balance our troop movements carefully. At the same time that we strip India and the Orient of native troops, we must replace them with English yeomanry. A matter of necessity you will surely concede. It was agreed by the Cabinet, for all the most obvious reasons, that since the Indian Mutiny a certain number of British troops must always serve there. With Indian troops in Mexico we can lower our guard a bit, station fewer of our own troops there perhaps, but we must be ever vigilant. So, all things considered, I can truthfully say that everything has been done that can be done.”
“We don’t like waiting,” she said. Pouting, querulous. “You said that no country can make a mockery of the British Empire — nor could one stand against its might. We want to see this happen — do you understand? We have the ghastly feeling that my darling Albert will never sleep at peace until this is done.” She twisted her black kerchief in her hands, unaware that she was rolling and unrolling it. She stared unseeingly into the distance, her wrinkled frown deepened. “I dream of him, almost nightly. Looking as he did — so many years ago. How handsome he was! But he does not appear to see me in my dreams. It is so awful. I try to talk to him — but I cannot find the words. He looks so unhappy with downcast eyes and a most somber mien. It is these Americans, I know it! They killed him and now they laugh at us.” Her voice shrill and angry. “They laugh — thinking that they can defeat the might of the British Empire. Something must be done to bring them to heel!”
There was no answer to that. The Duke muttered some pleasantries, then turned on the seat to look out of the window. When he did he felt something rustle in his breast pocket. That’s right — he remembered now — an aide had given him a message just before the ceremony. He dug the paper out and read it quickly.
“Damn and blast,” he muttered.
“What is it?” Victoria asked, frowning. She had an aversion to strong language. He waved the paper.
“That Home Office clerk they arrested, the one who seemed to come into money so suddenly. Weeks was his name.”
“What about him?”
“He talked. Confessed. I imagine they had to use a bit of persuasion, which I am sure that he richly deserved. Turns out that he really was a traitor, a damn spy, selling Britain’s most vital secrets to the Yankees. Goodness knows what he told them. Traitor. And he wasn’t even Irish. That I would have believed. Indeed.”
“An Englishman. We find that hard to give credence to. What will they do with him? Is there to be a trial?”
“No need to wash our dirty linen in public. In fact it has already been done. A self-confessed spy made for a speedy trial. Found guilty. Hung him next to the traitor’s gate. Buried him in the tower. Should have been drawn and quartered first.” He crumpled the paper and threw it onto the floor.
There were crowds in the street outside to see the Queen go by, since she rarely came to Ireland. Urchins ran beside the carriage and cheered wildly, as did the onlookers.
The carriage, and its squadron of mounted guards, turned a corner and passed now through a meaner neighborhood of narrow streets. Rubbish littered the broken pavements here, spilled over into the gutters. There were no cheers to be heard here, even a few backs were turned as shawled women walked away from the carriage and the soldiers. The Queen was too filled with sorrow for her departed Albert to notice. Not so the Duke who, like many of his class, rather detested Ireland and her peoples.
“Filthy Catholics,” he muttered to himself. Pulled his hat low on his forehead and stared angrily ahead.