“An excellent plan,” said the German, nodding. “With your permission, I will see that a bottle of the best champagne on board is sent to your cabin, so you can begin your voyage in a proper state of relaxation. Please call me Karl—all the men in my family are named Heinrich, so the second name I use with friends, so to avoid confusion. Oho, I do look forward to our ocean voyage, Mark Twain.” He gave another of his little bows, spun on his heel, and strode off purposively in the direction of the ship.
Mr. Clemens looked after him with a surprised expression for a moment, then said, “Well, that fellow may be a bit stiff, but he introduces himself graciously enough, and doesn’t intrude or linger. I doubt he’s going to be as difficult as you say, Wentworth. Nothing like a taste of champagne to start off an ocean voyage, especially when somebody else pays for it!”
“I suppose you’re right,” I replied. But privately, I wondered what Prinz Karl might want in return for his generosity.
At last City of Baltimore blew her whistle, signaling that it was time for boarding. As my employer had predicted, there was a great rush among the throng lining the dock, with everyone shouting and trying to push forward at once. I was ready to grab my bag and make my way forward, until Mr. Clemens said, “Feel free to join in the riot, if you want. You can get a black eye or a broken nose as easily here as on the football field, so maybe you’ll enjoy it. I used to get up and scuffle with the best of ’em, but I’m too old for that kind of entertainment.”
Somewhat reluctantly, I sat back down. While I could understand his disinclination to shove his way through a large crowd, I had no reason to believe it would be any thinner if we waited to board. At least I’d had the foresight to send our heavy trunks ahead, to be loaded by the crew, so we each had only a small carpetbag to carry. Even so, I didn’t fancy the notion of struggling aboard in the middle of a last-minute rush.
But it only took twenty minutes for the crowding to subside, and then Mr. Clemens knocked out his pipe and said, “Well, I reckon we can get on the boat, now.” I had to admit that he had gauged the situation exactly.
We took our carpetbags and walked toward the gangplank, actually a long stairway leading from the pier to a large door well up the side of the ship. But even before we got there, I could see there was some sort of trouble in the boarding area. At the foot of the gangplank I could hear raised voices. I knew the signs of an argument when I saw them, and as I might well have expected, Prinz Heinrich Karl von Ruckgarten was right in the middle of it. I was surprised to see another familiar face: Mr. Julius Babson, the man who had so graciously lent us his coach a few days ago in the rainstorm.
Prinz Karl was standing chest to chest with a young man about my own age, who was dressed in the sort of casual elegance that bespoke considerable affluence. Even as we drew close, Prinz Karl shook his fist and shouted, “I will not give way to persons of no merit or importance. Have the courtesy to stand aside and let a gentleman board, and you will have your turn.”
The young man did not back down. “We were here first, I’ll have you know,” he said. “First come, first served, is the rule in this country. If you won’t stand back, I’ll push you back.”
“Robert, please,” said Mrs. Babson, who stood next to her husband, a nervous look on her face. Mr. Babson stood stiffly, looking down his nose in the general direction of the prince. From their attitudes, it was easy to guess that young Robert must be their son, and his next words confirmed it.
“Don’t worry, Mother,” he said. “This pompous tub of lard may be used to cowing the peasants back home, but if he hasn’t learned not to tread on an American’s toes, it’s time somebody taught him the lesson.” Young Babson turned back to the prince. “Stand aside, mister. This is the last chance I’m giving you.”
I was convinced the two men were about to exchange blows, and wondering whether I ought to intervene to keep the peace—although experience had taught me that the man who steps between two others determined to fight often takes a harder blow than either. I had no reason to take either man’s side. I took one step forward, holding out my hand to keep Mr. Clemens from straying too close to the altercation. For myself, I intended to stay clear, but I was ready to do whatever became necessary.
I was saved from any such necessity by an authoritative voice from the deck above. “Ahoy! We’ll have none of that. Both you men, step off the gangplank and let the other passengers board.” The speaker was a tall, bearded man, in a blue uniform covered with gold braid: one of the ship’s officers, I decided. When neither Prinz Karl nor young Babson gave a sign of moving, the officer frowned and said, “Mr. Gallagher, will you please clear the gangplank!”
A wiry fellow with a weather-beaten face and a short-trimmed black beard stepped out of the ship and onto the gangplank. He was not much more than five foot six, and cocky as a bantam rooster in his uniform, though it was far plainer than the officer’s. Behind him were two burly seamen, neither of whom I would have been pleased to see across the line from me on a football field. They stepped down the gangplank in a purposeful manner, with that curious sway in their step that is the hallmark of a sailor. “You heard the captain,” said Gallagher, conveying a clear sense of menace without particularly raising his voice. “Step aside, now.”
Prinz Karl looked as if he might be ready to contest this order, but a look at the crewmen changed his mind. He stepped backward off the gangplank, still holding himself arrogantly erect. Young Babson stood his ground a moment longer, looking at the three men calmly advancing toward him. “Come on, lad, we don’t want any trouble,” said Gallagher, with a half-smile that suggested that while he mightn’t want trouble, he was fully prepared to deal with it.
Then Mrs. Babson said, “Robert! Come here this instant!” Her husband had been supervising two servants collecting their luggage; now he strode back to the gangplank and spoke in the tone of one used to being obeyed: “Robert, this is absurd. Come down and help your mother board the ship.” Looking somewhat peeved, the young fellow backed down, going to his mother’s side. His expression bespoke resentment, but the confrontation was over. Mr. Gallagher looked around, spotted Mr. Clemens, and smiled. “Here, I know that face,” he said. “You’re Mark Twain, aren’t you? No reason for you to wait here. Come aboard, and I’ll sort the rest of this out.”
And so we strolled up the gangplank onto the City of Baltimore, leaving Gallagher and his crewmen to resolve the question of precedence between Prinz Karl and the Babsons. I was just as glad to leave it in his hands; I’d had more than my share of fights and confrontations during my brief employment with Mr. Clemens, and had no interest in any more. For now, all I cared for was to find our cabin and pursue the exact same course of action as Mr. Clemens had planned for the voyage: sit on the deck, relax, and do as little as possible.
4
A businesslike man wearing an officer’s uniform and carrying a clipboard met us at the top of the gangplank. He introduced himself as Mr. Leslie, the ship’s purser. After a quick but thorough inspection of our tickets and passports he detailed a steward to lead Mr. Clemens and me to our cabin.
The steward, who was introduced to us as Harrison, set off at a brisk pace through such a maze of stairs and passageways that I quickly lost track of all the twists and turns. Meanwhile, he kept up a steady stream of commentary, indicating various points of interest as we passed them. “Here’s the purser’s office, and right down that passageway you’ll find the first-class barbershop, and the ship’s doctor is just opposite. Now we’ll go up to the cabin deck. Watch your step, please, gentlemen. Just aft of us is the ship’s library, which I’m sure you’ll find of interest,
