The twin screws of the Vanguard tore through the cold, ink-black water of the North Atlantic, leaving a foaming white wake three cables long.
Deep inside her iron belly, coal shovelers worked in rhythmic, sweat-drenched shifts, hurling high-grade anthracite into sixteen roaring furnaces. The heavy triple-expansion engines thrummed at full emergency speed, their massive steel connecting rods moving in a blinding, oil-slicked blur.
On the open bridge wing, spray froze the moment it struck the iron plating.
Prince Bastian stood with his boots braced against the deck frame, his dark oilskin coat heavy with salt ice. His face was set like granite, his dark eyes fixed on the black horizon where sea and sky blurred into a single, freezing gale.
Beside him, Foreman Haddon adjusted his wool cap, gripping the bridge rail with thick, calloused hands.
